


You Matter

by Chridder



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: 2020 US Presidential Election, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Election Themed, F/M, Fine It's Not So Veiled, Flirting, Happy Ending, Inappropriate Electioneering, Light Angst, Louisiana, POV Ben Solo, Social Issues, Talkin Politics with Strangers, The Resistance Needs You, Thinly-Veiled Political Messaging, Vote if You Can, learning new things, making new friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26652103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chridder/pseuds/Chridder
Summary: Ben Solo, unemployed and down on his luck, gets accosted by an over-eager volunteer for a voter registration drive. She’s annoyingly persistent, but cute in a bright-eyed, optimistic kind of way.Not that he’s into that.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey & Ben Solo, Rey & Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 86
Kudos: 66





	1. Incarceration

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my outlet for 2020 election angst! As you might guess from the tags, I live in the U.S. and I’m really into voting. 
> 
> Some things to know about this fic going in...
> 
> \- It's set in the present day, minus the pandemic because that makes things complicated.  
> \- Each chapter of the story focuses on an issue I care about.  
> \- You're welcome to use this fic as an outlet as well. Chime in on the issues or just scream incoherently in the comments.  
> \- My goal is to complete the first five chapters before November 3rd but that’s a tall order. Wish me luck and pray to my muses. 
> 
> Notes over. Happy reading! 
> 
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/189359426@N04/50382930463/in/dateposted-public/)  
> 

Ben hunches over the kitchen table, watching his dinosaur of a laptop fight to load the next page. It whirs loudly like it’s about to take off, and he half expects it to shut down from the exertion. 

He sighs, slouching in his chair. His eyes drift to mail stacked neatly on the table— bills, personal letters, and advertisements. He continues to the wall, wine red and covered in pictures, all of his uncle. In one, he’s young and draped in white robes, administering the Eucharist. In another, he’s quite a bit older, sitting cross-legged and laughing in a circle of children. In another, he’s praying over a couple holding a baby.

Father Luke. _Saint Luke._

Ben’s lips twist grimly. He can’t help but notice there’s not a single picture of Luke with a family member, not him, not his mom, not anyone. Surely, there must be one with Leia somewhere, tucked in a forgotten drawer… 

Suddenly, the computer flashes, and Ben sits up.

_Finally._

He scoots in, focusing on the next page of the application. This one’s a series of statements followed by multiple choice answers. He skims the instructions:

**For each item in this section, indicate the response that most accurately represents you.**

He reads the first statement:

**My pay is more important to me than the contributions I make to the company.**

  * **Strongly Agree**
  * **Agree**
  * **Neither Agree nor Disagree**
  * **Disagree**
  * **Strongly Disagree**



Ben rolls his eyes.

Yes, he’s slogging through this dumbass application because he’s dying to operate forklifts for a facilities management company. The pay is just a _fringe benefit_.

He clenches his jaw, but selects “strongly disagree.”

He moves to the next statement:

**When you’ve had to work with others to make a group decision, you’ve usually:**

  * **Proposed a 'middle ground' option to break deadlocks.**
  * **Worked to avoid options that others might disagree with.**
  * **Used your influence to make sure your own ideas were accepted.**
  * **Tried to find one solution which satisfies everyone's expectations.**
  * **Changed your own position to accommodate the interests of others.**



Ben narrows his eyes.

This seems like a trick question. There’s no obvious answer, at least not in his view. Clearly the third and fifth choices are wrong, maybe the fourth too. Surely, they don’t expect employees to seek solutions that satisfy _everyone_ , do they? That would ideal, but not practical. 

He rubs his jaw, mulling over the answers. After a minute, he chooses the first but doesn’t feel confident about it. He moves to the next statement.

**Your most common strategy for handling major disagreements with other people has been:**

Ben snorts.

Is aggravated assault one of the options? He scans his choices:

  * **Making sure he or she goes along with what you want to do.**
  * **Getting input from others and removing yourself from the situation.**
  * **Blending your ideas with the other person to come up with new options.**
  * **Finding compromise options that both you and the other person will accept.**
  * **Accepting what the other person wants so that they are pleased with the decision.**



His eyes roll back in his head.

 _God_ , he’s sick of this. He’d rather take the LSAT a thousand times again than answer another of these stupid questions. He’s filled out dozens of applications like it in a month and gotten _zero_ interviews. This is a waste of his time… He should be knocking on doors for lawn mowing jobs or loitering with the day labor crowd at Home Depot. It’s not steady work but at least it’s _something_.

Ben grinds his teeth, boring holes into the screen. How long has he been at this? Twenty minutes?

He glances at the time, and his eyes bug.

_Two fucking hours?_

He throws himself against his chair.

This _piece of shit_ laptop taking _five fucking minutes_ to load every page. He could’ve submitted _ten_ applications by now with a half-decent computer.

He growls, refocusing on the statement. He reads the multiple-choice options once, twice, three times before choosing a random answer and moving on. He soldiers through the rest of the statements, taking increasingly less time with each one. He swells when he gets to the end.

**Continue to Final Page**

He clicks quickly, then waits as the page loads. Seconds stretch into a minute. Then another minute. Then another…

Finally, the page pops up, revealing three yes or no questions.

_Thank God._

Ben moves to answer the first but stops dead when he sees the third. His heart sinks.

**Have you ever been convicted of a felony or incarcerated in connection with a felony in the past seven years?**

He swallows. For a minute, he stares at the screen. Then, he moves the cursor to “no.” He hovers there, working his jaw.

Finally, he clicks it. He answers the other two questions and submits the application before he can second guess himself. The page begins to load, a circle in the center going around and around. He watches, a knot in his stomach.

There’s no reason to feel guilty. _None_. He’s just doing what he needs to do to make a living, that’s all.

The laptop whirs loudly, kicking into high gear. Ben waits, drumming his fingers on the table.

It’s just an experiment, really, to see what happens when he doesn’t check the box. He might not even take the interview if he gets it, or at least he’ll confess what he did. Maybe his honesty will be rewarded…

He grinds his teeth.

God, he’s _fucking pathetic_. There was a time where he was raking in a six-figures, the highest paid lawyer in his firm, aside from the partners. Now here he is, lying on an application so he can get paid minimum wage moving boxes in a warehouse. 

He clenches a fist. The application’s still processing, the circle going around and around.

Suddenly, he slams the computer across the table, stacks of mail flying as it skids over the edge. It crashes to the hardwood floor, makes a strangled beep, then goes dead.

 _FUCK_.

He shoots out of his chair, scurrying to kneel in front of the laptop. He opens it to find a cracked screen.

_Shit._

He passes a shaking hand through his hair, then picks up the computer like it’s a newborn babe, setting it carefully on the table. He presses and holds the power button.

Nothing.

He presses it again, longer this time.

Still nothing.

“Come on, you _piece of shit_ ,” he mutters, jamming the power. When that doesn’t work, he starts pressing random keys, desperate for a sign of life.

It’s no use. The computer’s just a black mirror now, the crack on its surface intersecting with the scar on his face.

Great. Now the laptop’s like him in every way— old, scarred, and completely useless.

He snatches the computer, yanks the power cord from the wall, then chucks both in the garbage. He stalks away, but he already he’s planning to fish it out later, take it apart to see if there’s anything worth selling. He runs his fingers through his hair, pacing in front of the table.

This is a good thing, really. Now he won’t be tempted to fill out a bunch of dead-end applications, and he focus on temp work instead, actually make some money.

Instinctively, Ben turns to the calendar tacked to the fridge. He moves closer, counting the days even though he already knows what he’ll find.

_Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three…_

Twenty-four. He has twenty-four days before Luke gets back. Twenty-four days to earn enough money to get his own apartment and move _the fuck_ out of here. Chance has never been on Ben’s side, but when the end of his sentence coincided with his uncle’s mission trip, he thought maybe it was a sign. If he can get his own place and escape an endless litany of sermons and guilt trips, he might even start believing in God… 

Ben closes his eyes. He pictures Luke the last time he saw him, that final look before he turned to the airport. His expression was kind but with an undertone of disappointment. Or maybe it was embarrassment…

He passes a hand over his eyes.

His uncle isn’t a bad man, not really. He’s just incredibly self-absorbed, and Ben’s in no position to throw stones on that account. It’s a Skywalker trait, it seems, to be so focused on your own goals that everything else falls to the wayside— family, empathy, good judgement. Only his mother managed to rise above this, and that was just at the very end. Losing a husband, then effectively a son has a way of sobering a person.

And driving them into an early grave.

Ben sags. He stares blankly at the floor, a sense of loss biting deep.

He shakes his head, forcing himself back to the present. He glances at the clock over the stove.

_3:27_

Still enough time to load up the mower and make the rounds in one of the nicer neighborhoods nearby. He’s had pretty good success with that, a benefit of the prolonged summer. No one wants to do yardwork in this heat…

He takes a breath, then heads to the living room, wiping sweat from his brow. During the day, the house stays at a stuffy 80 degrees, but Ben’s avoided messing with the AC, not wanting to run up Luke’s bill. He searches for his tennis shoes, spotting them under the couch, but just as he leans to get them, there’s a knock on the door.

Ben freezes, heart jumping to his throat.

That’s not his parole officer, is it?

He shoots straight.

No. No, no, no… He just met with him last week, and he’s followed his instructions _to the letter_. There’s no reason for him to show up here.

Ben moves carefully from the couch, eyeing the blinds over the door. There’s a vague shape on the other side, too short to be his parole officer.

He relaxes, shoulders dropping. For a moment, he considers ignoring whoever it is. 

The visitor knocks again, a little more loudly this time. “Hello?” A female voice calls in a British accent.

Ben sighs. He reaches for the nob, opening the door slowly.

Light pours into the house, illuminating a young woman standing outside. She’s about twenty from the looks of it, brown hair pulled in a messy bun. She’s wearing shorts and a T-shirt with the words “Resist” emblazoned across the chest and a fist emblem in the center. She smiles when she sees him, clipboard in hand.

“Hi!” She greets cheerily. “My name’s Rey Johnson, and I’m a volunteer for the Resistance, a regional organization that support social justice initiatives in the Southern United States. I’m here to urge you to vote in the upcoming—”

_WHAP!_

Ben slams the door, turning away.

“ _Hey!_ ” The girl bangs loudly. “You didn’t let me finish! I’m not here to ask you to vote one way or another. _I promise!_ ”

Ben walks through the living room.

“I just want to make sure you’re _registered_ , that’s all!” She keeps banging. “The deadline’s next week!” 

He continues to the kitchen.

“ _Please!_ ” She whines. “Come on! Just hear me out, would you?”

Ben halts, rolling his eyes. He lingers a moment, then stalks to the front door, jerking it open.

“Oh!” The girl starts, surprised. “Thank you. Thank you _so much_ , Mr. Skywalker. I really appreciate—”

“I’m not Skywalker,” Ben says flatly.

“You’re not?” The girl knits her brow. “But…” She looks down at her clipboard. “Records say this house is owned by a Mr. Luke Skywalker, and he’s the only one in residence. Is that not right?”

“I’m his nephew.” Ben crosses his arms. “Here for a visit.”

“Ah.” The girl parts her lips. “I see. And are you a resident of East Baton Rouge Parish?”

He grinds his teeth. “ _Yes_.”

“Oh good.” The girl relaxes. “Then, who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”

Ben narrows his eyes. “Kylo. Kylo Ren.”

“Well, nice to meet you, Mr. Ren.” The girl smiles. “Like I said before, I’m Rey and I’m here to encourage you to vote in the upcoming election. Have you registered yet?”

“No,” Ben says tersely.

“That’s alright.” Rey ignores his coldness. “I’m here to make that very easy for you. I have everything you need to register right here.” She touches her clipboard. “All you have to do is fill out the paperwork, address the envelope, and the Resistance will mail it. We’ll even pay for the postage.” She says this proudly like she’s doing him a favor by saving him 50 cents. 

Ben stares, silent and stone-faced.

“So…” The girl shifts a little. “Would you like to register?” 

He says nothing, arms crossed.

“Or maybe…” She tilts her head. “You’re not much for voting?”

Nothing.

“Well…” Her smile falters. “If that’s the case, I have some very good reasons to vote I’d like to share with you.” She searches his face.

He keeps silent, expression schooled in a mask.

Rey tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She glances at her clipboard, then looks up, squaring her shoulders. “First of all, voting is the bedrock of this country, the most basic and important right of all United States citizens. Throughout history, Americans have fought long and hard to win that right for all races, all sexes…” 

The girl drones on with a well-rehearsed speech, and Ben only pays half attention, taking the opportunity to study her.

She’s slim with an athletic build, nearly every inch of her long legs visible in her denim shorts. Her T-shirt is cut into a boat neck, revealing the straps of a pink bra and a spattering of freckles across her shoulders. She’s obviously been outside for a while, beads of sweat on her forehead, the fabric of her shirt clinging to her frame. He would feel guilty for ogling a teenager a couple years past jail bait, but she’s the one forcing him to endure a speech that’s irrelevant to him.

She goes on passionately, and even though she’s clearly repeating a script, she seems to believe what she says. She lights up when talking about the progress of past generations, glowing with conviction. 

_God, she’s young…_

He almost feels sorry for her. Any day now, the world will crumble around her and she’ll realize everything she believes in is bullshit.

Ben listens, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

“And that’s why it’s _so important_ to vote in every election,” Rey finishes with a flourish, all perky and proud of herself. She looks at him expectantly.

Ben stares for the better part of a minute. 

Then, he purses his lips. “You’re not a citizen, are you.” This is a statement, not a question.

“I…” The girl stumbles. “I’m from the U.K., but I aspire to be an American one day. I’m earning a degree in mechanical engineering, and I hope to get a job here after I graduate.” 

“You go to LSU?”

“Yeah…” She answers carefully. “I’m a senior.”

Ben grunts. “It’s Rey, right?”

She nods.

“Alright, Rey.” He uncrosses his arms. “Here’s a lesson for you, so listen up.” He straightens to his full height. “Voting _does not_ matter in this country. It’s a sham to cover up the fact that we’re an oligarchy run by Wall Street and big business. We vote politicians into office so they can spend 70% of their time hustling for donors and pandering to lobbyists. Constituents don’t matter. Voters don’t matter except to the extent that politicians can fool them into believing they care about their interests. They rile them up against imaginary enemies, then do what they want after getting elected and the shmucks who voted for them are none the wiser because no one reads actual news. So, before you preach the value of democracy in a country you can’t vote in, maybe you should do a little research on its government and politics.” He leans in, face hovering over hers. “You can read, can’t you Rey?”

The girl gapes, arms limp at her sides. She nods dumbly.

“ _Good_.” He steps back. “Then why don’t you take a break between rounds of beer pong or whatever college students do these days, and _educate yourself_.” With that, he slams the door and stomps angrily to the kitchen. He stops just past entrance, trembling with adrenaline.

The girl lingers outside. He knows because he doesn’t hear footsteps trailing down the walkway.

Ben stands by the table, clenching and unclenching his fists. He fights the urge to look over his shoulder, eyes trained on a mess of tools by the stove. A minute passes before he hears shuffling outside followed by the distinct rustling of paper. Finally, the girl leaves, footsteps growing distant then disappearing altogether.

Ben lets out his breath, not realizing he was holding it. He runs a hand through his hair, turning slowly.

There’s no one behind the door now, just slivers of light coming though the blinds. He moves carefully to the living room, stopping a foot from the door. He waits a moment, then opens it, just a crack, peaking outside.

A car drives by but otherwise the street is empty.

He opens the door a little more, poking his head out and glancing in both directions. The girl’s not at the apartments to the right, but she could be at the house on the left. There’s no way to tell through all the brush…

Ben starts to close the door but stops when he catches sight of something on the welcome mat. He crouches to inspect.

It’s a business envelope addressed to a Baton Rouge election office with a stamp in the corner. He opens it and pulls out two sheets of paper, folded neatly. It’s an application for voter registration with “Kylo Ren” scrawled in blue ink as the first and last name.

Ben grunts, skimming the application. He settles on one of the first questions. 

**Are you currently under an order of imprisonment for conviction of a felony?**

He sets his jaw.

Then, he rips the application to shreds, scattering it across the porch. He turns back into the house, slamming the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some not-so-fun facts...
> 
> \- The United States imprisons more of its people than any other country. It comprises  
> [4.4. % of the global population but 22% of the world’s prisoners.](https://www.pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2018/05/02/americas-incarceration-rate-is-at-a-two-decade-low/)  
> \- According to a 2016 report, black Americans are imprisoned at a rate [five times higher than that of whites.](https://www.sentencingproject.org/publications/color-of-justice-racial-and-ethnic-disparity-in-state-prisons/) In twelve states, more than half the prison population is black. Louisiana is one of them.  
> \- Until 2018, Louisiana was known as the [“world’s prison capital.”](https://www.prisonpolicy.org/global/2018.html) That distinction now goes to Oklahoma.  
> \- High rates of incarceration result in [prison overcrowding and poor conditions,](https://talkpoverty.org/2019/05/15/prison-overcrowding-dangerous-conditions/) including malnutrition, increased homicides, and lack of access to basic resources like toilet paper and tampons. Prison populations have been [disproportionately affected by COVID-19 ](https://www.cidrap.umn.edu/news-perspective/2020/07/us-prison-inmates-among-those-hit-hard-covid-19) with death rates three times higher than the rest of the population.  
> \- Once released, the previously incarcerated face a number of challenges, especially difficulty finding employment. The unemployment rate for former prisoners is [five times higher](https://www.prisonpolicy.org/reports/outofwork.html) than the general population with 60% of former prisoners remaining unemployed after one year of release. This contributes to high recidivism rates with as many as [48% of former prisoners](https://www.pewtrusts.org/en/research-and-analysis/articles/2018/08/01/the-changing-state-of-recidivism-fewer-people-going-back-to-prison) returning within three years.  
> \- Some states [have passed “ban the box” laws](https://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2015/03/shoveling-a-path-out-of-prison/386483/?gclid=Cj0KCQjwvvj5BRDkARIsAGD9vlJjxjVPLPngvt9aNx6N3mq8E92aa6MuWoDKIxAer3WdWsnBjpHTOlEaAhKpEALw_wcB) making it illegal for employers to ask applicants if they've been imprisoned, but these laws are often not enforced.  
> \- Depending on the state, the formerly incarcerated face a variety of [“collateral consequences,”](https://www.ncjrs.gov/pdffiles1/nij/grants/251583.pdf) including restrictions on housing, public assistance, child custody, access to education, and one very relevant to this story. I'm sure you can [guess what that is.](https://www.sentencingproject.org/publications/felony-disenfranchisement-a-primer/)  
> \- If you'd like to get your heart crushed and handed back to you, [read this story.](https://www.aclu.org/issues/voting-rights/fighting-voter-suppression/crystal-mason-thought-she-had-right-vote-texas)
> 
> In most states, there's still time to register to vote. Not registered yet? [Click here.](https://vote.gov) The wonderful @PenJane helped me put together [this voting cheat sheet.](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1wpv9l-Q0can68g4GI99qS3ZZ4oM81GjZc5zZy4Wx9yI/edit) Be sure to check it out!
> 
> The next update will be October 10th. Thank you for reading!


	2. Immigration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up:
> 
> \- This is a "no Rey" chapter. It's the first of two in the story.  
> \- Trigger warning for brief mentions of violence and rape  
> \- Try not to judge Ben too harshly. He's got some learning to do.

Ben leans against a magnolia tree in front of Home Depot, one of several in islands across the parking lot. The tree provides good cover— a thick canopy leaves stretching overhead.

There’s chatter all around him, about eight or nine guys sharing the shade. Like Ben, they’re dressed for a day of hard work, sporting jeans and stained T-shirts. Everyone looks casual, careful not to stare at potential employers as they park and head into the store.

It’s the first thing Ben learned about day labor— you want to look ready to work but not too eager about it. You never approach a contractor but wait for them to approach you, then follow their lead on how friendly to be. Some want to talk you up, get a sense who they’re dealing with, while others keep things short and to the point. Ben’s caught on quickly, and he’s earned decent amount of cash in the past month, though not enough to buy his independence.

Instinctively, he starts calculating in his head. He has $1000 in the bank and about $150 in petty cash, so if he keeps skimping on food, he could conceivably save $1800 by the end of the month. That’ll be enough for a deposit on a cheap apartment plus rent, electricity, and living expenses. It’ll be tight, though… One stroke of bad luck, and he’ll end up back at Luke’s except his uncle will actually _be_ _there_ this time.

He suppresses a shudder.

He hears his mother in his head, scolding him for being so dramatic, telling him he’ll save more if he lives with his uncle. Of course, this would be unnecessary if she were still around…

Ben slouches against the tree. He rolls his head back, appearing half asleep, but he subtly surveys the crowd, sizing up the competition.

Most are Latino except for one guy he painted a house with last week. He’s a black kid in his early twenties, standing apart from the others. Every now and then, he glances at Ben, but Ben’s careful not to meet his eye.

Everyone else is loitering by a truck next to the tree, a couple sitting in the bed, legs dangling over the edge. They talk quietly in Spanish, and if the past month is any indicator, these guys will be the first get hired. Ben was surprised, at first, to find that contractors, who are almost always white, prefer Latino workers above all others. He quickly learned why when he overheard the job offers.

The Latinos will work for next to nothing.

Ben would be lying if he said he wasn’t disgruntled by this. Since most day laborers are Latino, they set the norm, so everyone else has to accept similar wages or none at all.

He sighs, closing his eyes.

 _God, it’s like he’s still in prison_ …

Not only is he getting paid next to nothing for a hard day’s labor, but here he is, competing for scarce resources in a group of racially-segregated men.

It was one of the stranger things about being behind bars, the way race guided everything. Before he was convicted, Ben never thought much about being white, but after, it became his defining feature. He learned quickly to stick with his own, meaning people who looked like him. Race dictated his whole life— who his cell mates were, who he sat with at lunch, what food he could eat, where he could go in the yard. Everyone self-segregated, and those who didn’t were targets.

In some ways, it was illuminating, refreshing even. Out in the world, race guides how things work, but nobody likes to talk about it. In prison, that shit’s out in the open. No one tries to hide prejudice or dress it up in euphemism. It’s explicitly invoked as the reason to treat someone like garbage. It’s disgusting, but at least it’s honest.

Ben may be out of prison, but he’s internalized what he learned there. He’s become acutely aware of his whiteness and the advantages it affords him. Outside the joint, no one associates him with criminality or is quick to suspect him of wrongdoing. He may have trouble finding a job, but his white-sounding name gives him a leg up on others in his position. Instead of feeling guilty about this, like he should, he relishes this arbitrary thing that makes his life easier. And when he finds himself in a situation like the one he’s in now, where his race is a detriment instead of an asset, his instinct is to feel cheated at the loss of privilege.

But he tries not to dwell on this. At the end of the day, it could be much worse…

Without thinking, he glances at the kid standing apart from the Latinos.

The kid’s staring right at him.

Ben quickly looks down, tucking his chin.

Too late. A second later and he hears footsteps on the pavement, softening when they reach the grass. 

“Hey.”

He looks up to find the kid standing in front of him.

“Didn’t we work together last week?” The kid searches him for a sign of recognition. “Painting that house in Bocage?”

Ben waits a beat before answering. “Yeah.”

“I thought so.” The kid smiles. “It’s Ben, right?”

Ben straightens, surprised he remembered his name. “That’s right.”

They stand silently a moment, the kid staring like he’s expecting something. “I’m Finn,” he says finally, offering a hand.

Ben glances at it.

He’s never been a people person, and since doing time, he’s become downright misanthropic. He avoids human interaction at all costs, but this kid seems so desperate not to stand by himself, Ben can hardly deny him the comfort of his company, however shitty it may be.

“Nice to see you again, Finn.” Ben takes his hand with a firm shake.

Finn visibly relaxes. “Nice to see you, too.” He turns his back to the tree, dipping down to take a seat.

Ben feels obligated to follow.

Finn settles against the trunk, tucking a knee into his chest. Ben struggles to get comfortable, eventually planting his feet in front of him.

“So…” Finn purses his lips. “Looks like it won’t get too hot today. It’s 7:30 and it’s not even 70 degrees yet. Might not hit the 80’s if we’re lucky.”

Ben snorts. “Less than 80 degrees in mid-October? What a _fucking miracle_.” This comes out harsher than he intended, but Finn just laughs.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” He glances at Ben.

“Not exactly,” Ben admits.

“Welcome to Louisiana, man.” Finn gives a half smile. “We got 80 degree falls, hurricane season, floods. Shit gets biblical down here, but don’t worry. You’ll get used to it.”

Ben grunts an acknowledgement.

“Besides, we’ve got stuff to make up for it. Just wait until Mardi Gras.” Finn winks. “And in case you haven’t noticed, we’ve got a laid-back attitude when it comes to alcohol— liquor in all the grocery stores, go-cups at restaurants, drive-through daiquiri bars.”

“Yes,” Ben deadpans. “And I’m sure that has nothing to do with the obscene cost of car insurance in this state.”

“No, that’s because Louisianans love to sue each other,” Finn corrects. “It’s our third favorite hobby after drinking and watching football.”

“Good to know.” Ben nods. “Any other cultural tid bits for me?”

“Hmm…” Finn looks up thoughtfully. “We’re real particular about our food, so watch what you say about it. And don’t _ever_ put kale in gumbo.”

“No kale in gumbo. Got it.”

“And don’t wear anything with the Crimson Tide logo on it, though you probably wouldn’t do that anyway, would you?”

Ben shrugs. “Never been much for sports.”

“Say…” Finn tilts his chin up. “Where are you from originally, anyway?”

Ben opens his mouth, but Finn waves a hand to stop him.

“Wait. No. I wanna guess. Let’s see…” Finn rubs his jaw. After a moment, his eyes slide to Ben’s. “ _Massachusetts_.”

“Close.” His lips quirk up. “New York.”

“I _knew_ it.” Finn points at him. “You’ve got that New England snark. You’re like a Mass-hole, but more sullen and brooding.”

Ben laughs softly. “I’ve known a few Mass-holes. My dad was one. Though it’s not a term I expected to hear around here.”

“I’ve got cousins in Jersey,” Finn explains, crossing his legs. “They like to make fun of New Yorkers and Mass-holes, but they’re just as bad. Every state’s got its own brand of jackass, ya know? Or in Louisiana’s case, coon-ass.”

Ben widens his eyes. “Uh…” He shifts uncomfortably. “Isn’t that term considered offensive?”

“Eh.” Finn tilts his head. “Depends. It’s kinda like the N-word. You can say it if you’re Cajun, and only in certain contexts. I wouldn’t go shouting it in Home Depot.” He sticks a thumb to the store.

Ben nods but doesn’t fully understand.

They lapse into silence, watching the parking lot fill with more cars. The sun creeps higher in the sky, and the Latinos move further under the tree to escape the heat.

Finn pulls out his phone when it buzzes, rolling his eyes slightly. He sighs, thumbs darting over the key pad. “Think we’ll get some work today?” He tucks the phone back in his pocket.

“Maybe,” Ben says absently. “Depends on how many contractors stop by.”

They both glance at the Latinos, then each other, an unspoken understanding passing between them.

They won’t be getting work today unless they’re the only ones left. 

Finn sighs, plucking a blade of grass. “I’ve come here practically every morning since May, and I usually get work at least once a week, twice if I’m lucky. I have a steady job bartending, but my sister’s on dance team at school this year, and those uniforms are _expensive_.”

Ben raises his eyebrows but doesn’t comment. He’s tempted to ask why his parents aren’t the ones hustling for his sister’s uniforms, but he doesn’t want to get too personal. Besides, the answer is most likely unpleasant.

Ben starts to sink further into the tree but snaps up at a commotion beside him.

The Latinos are abuzz, chattering excitedly and moving out from under the shade.

Finn perks up. He seems confused at first but soon brightens like a kid on Christmas. “Oh, _fuck yes!_ ” He shoots to his feet.

Ben rises slowly, glancing between Finn and the Latinos. They’re all fixed on a silver Chevy pulling into an empty spot across the way.

Finn dances in place, craning his neck.

“What’s going on?” Ben looks between Finn and the Chevy.

Before Finn can answer, two men hop out of the silver truck, one lean and unkempt, his flannel shirt half tucked in his pants, and the other more clean-cut with a curly hair and chiseled features.

One of the Latinos walks towards them. “Poe, hijo de puta! Adonde te has metido?”

The guys by the Chevy speak briefly, then the skinny one heads to the store while the other turns to the man striding up to him. “Jorge.” He starts forward. “Estaba con tu madre. Dice que me prefiere a mi.” He gives a roguish grin.

The two meet with a handshake that quickly becomes a hug. They pat each other on the back, laughing as several others walk out to join them. Within a minute, all the Latinos are gathered in the center of the parking lot, chatting boisterously in Spanish.

Finn watches eagerly, rubbing his hands together.

“What’s going on?” Ben probes. “Who’s that guy?”

“ _That_ …” Finn points at the man at the center of the crowd. “Is Poe Dameron, rock star contractor. Seriously, he and his partner are _the best_. They treat you right, compensate you for everything, and if they can, they hire everyone here, _which means_ …” He nudges Ben. “We’re gettin’ paid today.”

Ben raises his eyebrows, looking back to the crowd. Poe’s making the rounds, shaking hands with everyone, greeting them with a picture-perfect grin like a politician at a fundraiser.

Ben can see why Finn called him a rock star. He’s got classic good looks and an easy manner, the kind of guy who’s the center of attention without trying. He strikes Ben as the type who was quarterback in high school, prom king probably. He studies the man, instinctively distrustful.

The conversation seems to gradually shift to work, Poe gesturing between his truck and the store. One by one, the crowd thins, and someone gets into the truck by the tree, moving it next to the silver Chevy. 

Finally, Poe stands alone, settling on Finn under the shade. “Hey, man.” Poe strides up to him. “How you been?”

“Can’t complain.” Finn steps to meet the contractor, taking his hand. “Though I’m happy to see you. My sister made dance team this year, so I really gotta pick up some extra cash.”

“Dance team?” Poe quirks his head. “ _That_ bookworm?”

“Oh, she’s still a bookworm,” Finn assures. “Honors classes, debate club, the whole nine. She’s just a dancing bookworm, now.”

“Well, alright.” Poe claps Finn’s shoulder. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint the bookworm. How do you feel about building a fence today?”

“I feel great about it.”

“Excellent. With this many guys, we should knock it out by 2:00, 4:00 at the latest. That work for you?”

“Sure does,” Finn agrees readily.

“Good, good.” Poe glances at Ben, just seeming to notice him.

“Oh!” Finn turns to him. “Poe, I’d like you meet my friend, Ben. I’ve been on a job with him before, and he’s a really hard worker. And tall, as you can see, so he’s perfect for fence-building.”

“Hey there.” Poe offers hand. “I’m Poe Dameron, contractor out of Jackson. Me and my partner keep to Mississippi most days, but we make our way out here every now and then.”

“Ben Solo.” Ben takes his hand. “I’m new to Louisiana. Just moved from up north.”

“Welcome to the South.” Poe flashes a grin. “Watch out for those gators.”

Ben doesn’t respond, expression neutral.

“So, uh…” Poe eyes him. “You up for joining us?”

“Yes.” Ben doesn’t hesitate. “I’d like that very much.”

“Great. Welcome to the team.” Poe pats his shoulder, and Ben stiffens, uncomfortable with the familiarity. “Did either of you bring drivers, by any chance?”

“I have two,” Ben answers. “Both charged and with back up batteries.”

Poe raises his eyebrows, clearly impressed. “I like you already. Tell me you have a truck with an empty bed, and I’ll like you even more.”

“I do,” Ben nods.

“ _Perfect._ We’ve got a lot of lumber to haul today and the less we have to pay Home Depot to move it, the better. You’ll be compensated for gas, of course. Finn, I’ve got your number so I’ll text you the address. Are you guys riding together?”

“Uh…” Finn glances at Ben.

“Yeah.” Ben nods. “We are.”

“Cool.” Poe smiles. “If you don’t mind, go ahead and move your truck by mine and when my partner finishes up in the store, we’ll head to loading zone.”

“Alright, man.” Finn sticks his hand out. “Thank you so much.”

“Thank _you_.” Poe takes it easily. “You’re really doing me a favor, and I intend to pay well for it. Speaking of which, does $12 sound good?”

Ben narrows his eyes.

 _Seriously…?_ $12 for _the day…?_

Finn’s face lights up. “$12 an hour is _great_.”

Ben’s jaw drops.

“Alright. You’re on the clock starting now. I’ll see you guys out there.” With that, Poe turns, strolling back to his truck.

Ben stands frozen, gaping after him.

Finn waits until he’s out ear shot before squealing. “Yes!” He pumps a fist. “What’d I tell you, man? Poe is _the best_. We’re gonna earn _so much_ money today.”

Ben blinks, still recovering from the shock.

$12 dollars an hour, starting now, for a job that’ll go until 2:00, maybe 4:00…

He calculates quickly, then shudders a breath.

Even at a modest estimate, he’ll make more today than he has any day since getting out of prison.

“Ok.” Finn claps his hands together. “Let’s get your truck and move it to Poe’s. He should text me here in a minute…” He pulls out his phone, swiping the screen. “ _Shit!_ ” He curses. “My battery’s at a quarter charge. Do you mind if we use your phone to navigate?”

“Sure. I’ve got a charger in the truck.”

“Alright. Mind if we exchange numbers so I can text you where we’re going?”

“Uh…” Ben pats his pants, searching for his phone.

From here, the morning moves at lightspeed. Ben’s used to long days and even longer nights, but when he’s on a job like this, the hours become a blur.

First, Poe leads everyone the loading zone and they haul the lumber into five trucks, one a rental. It’s total chaos, lots of yelling and miscommunication, and by the time they hit the road, Ben’s jittery and adrenaline-charged. He and Finn bitch about the shitty service at Home Depot, and before they know it, they’re pulling into the site, a small apartment complex on the outskirts of town. They wait in the trucks while Poe and his partner talk to the manager, then Poe gathers everyone for a rundown of the job and starts assigning tasks.

Ben was wary of Poe at first, suspicious of that politician-slick way of his, but he must admit, the man lives up to his hype. He’s worked with plenty of crews like this in prison, a hodge podge of guys who’ve hardly know each other, often working jobs they’ve never done, and it’s usually a clusterfuck. Watching Poe, he realizes the problem wasn’t the crew but the leadership.

The man’s nothing if not efficient, putting guys in pairs and setting them to tasks based on sequence of steps that must be followed in a certain order. While some guys are digging holes for the posts, others are getting concrete ready to set them. When the diggers are finished, the concrete guys move in, and the others start moving the lumber in piles where the fence will go. While the concrete sets, Poe sends each pair to a section of the fence to make sure the posts are level, then it’s drilling, drilling, drilling.

Ben works with Finn, who’s quiet for the most part. They fall into an easy rhythm—get the wood, level it, drill, repeat. Every now and then, Ben glances at other parts of the fence, and it’s like watching a YouTube video of a project. Every time he looks, new sections have appeared out of nowhere.

Things slow when their driver batteries start to die, and even though Ben brought back ups, he’s glad when Poe calls a break so they can recharge them and eat lunch. By then, it’s noon, and the sun’s directly overhead in a sky cruelly devoid of clouds. He and Finn put their drivers in a charger, then join the rest of the guys at a gazebo in the apartment complex. It’s small but surrounded by those mossy Live Oaks that seem to be all over Louisiana. Ben grabs water from the cooler and is surprised to find food’s been provided as well— apples, bananas, and sandwiches.

He grabs one of each, starting to feel guilty for his first impression of Poe. Maybe his friendliness is fake, but his sense of decency certainly isn’t. He cares about his employees, going above and beyond to make them feel respected and valued. Ben still can’t believe he pays $12 an hour…

He takes a seat under one of the Live Oaks, followed by Finn. Most of the guys stay around the gazebo, laughing and chattering in Spanish. Someone pulls a truck up and puts on some music, creating a party-like atmosphere. Ben finishes his lunch, then settles against the tree, his sweat-soaked shirt sticking to his skin. He watches Poe listening to another guy tell a story, then drifts over the rest of the crew, soon settling on Poe’s partner.

Cassian, he’s heard others call him. He’s leaning against a rail outside the gazebo, eating an apple and oblivious to everyone else. He’s about Poe’s height but skinnier with a shadow of a mustache and stubble along his jaw. In many ways, he’s Poe’s opposite— silent and unassuming with none of Poe’s charm or commanding presence. At a casual glance, one might even mistake him for a day laborer.

But Ben’s been paying attention. Cassian may not give the orders, but Ben’s caught Poe pulling him to the side several times this morning to chat in low voices. When this happens, Cassian does most of the talking while Poe nods. He starting to get the impression Cassian is the brains of the operation…

Cassian studies his apple thoughtfully, which is mostly a core now. He seems to search for some meaning in it, like observing a piece of art.

“He’s an odd bird.”

Ben looks to Finn, jerked from his thoughts.

“Cassian, I mean.” Finn nods to him. “He’s really quiet and spends a lot of time in his head. He’s nice once you get to know him, though. Come to think of it, he’s kinda like you.”

Ben grunts, glancing back at Cassian.

He takes a final bite of his apple, tosses it, then starts to the tree where Ben and Finn are sitting.

They both straighten as he approaches.

“Finn,” Cassian greets simply, taking a seat in the grass. He doesn’t acknowledge Ben at all.

“Hey, man.” Finn shifts to face him. “How’ve you been?”

“Typical.” Cassian leans back, planting his palms behind him. “You know how the days go, one follows another, then another. And yourself?”

“Uh…” Finn clouds. “Same. Yeah, pretty much the same.”

Cassian nods, then looks to the Live Oak.

It’s a little awkward now, but Cassian seems unaware of it. He studies the tree, trailing over curved branches dipping so low they almost touch the ground. 

“So, uh…” Finn searches for something to say. “We’ve been doing pretty good today. I’ve never seen a fence go up this fast.”

Cassian nods but keeps his eyes on the tree. He has that same look from when admiring his apple, absorbed by something only he can see.

Finn twists his lips to one side.

Silence.

Finn re-crosses his legs, and Ben can tell he’s trying to come up with something else to say. He studies the ground, brows furrowed, then suddenly snaps up. “Oh! Say man…” He looks to Cassian. “How’s Poe’s cousin doing? What’s his name, again? Carlos?”

Cassian nods.

“Is he adjusting to Jackson alright?”

“More or less.” Cassian shrugs. “He’s bored and anxious sometimes. Doesn’t sleep too well.”

“Yeah, I can understand that.” Finn looks down. “Has he, uh… heard back on his application yet?”

“Just heard from the lawyer yesterday.”

“And?”

“Rejected on account of incorrect filing.”

“ _Again!?_ ” Finn balks. “What was the problem this time?”

“Well, let’s see…” Cassian sits up, bringing a hand to his jaw. “I believe there was an error on page three where the lawyer was supposed to check a box, but the lawyer gave a look, and the box was checked.”

“Oh…” Finn knits his brow. “Then why did they reject it?”

“I don’t know.” Cassian settles on him. “Why do you think?”

“Uh… maybe it was a mistake?”

Cassian tsks. “I would agree if this weren’t the third time. It’s odd, don’t you think, that they keep making these mistakes?”

“Not really.” Finn grunts. “If Immigration Services is anything like the Department of Labor, they’re dumb as shit.”

“Or maybe it’s the opposite.” Cassian dips his chin. “Maybe they’re very smart.”

Finn quirks his head. “You mean… You think they’re making mistakes on purpose?”

Cassian raises a brow.

“But wouldn’t that create more work for them?” 

“Perhaps reducing work isn’t the goal. Perhaps the goal is to keep the application from being processed long enough for Carlos to be deported.”

“ _What!?_ ” Finn sits upright. “They can’t do that! They know what’ll happen if Carlos gets sent back.”

Cassian shrugs. “It’s easy to dismiss what you won’t see.” 

“But that’s _bullshit!_ ”

“That’s politics.” Cassian gives a dry smile. “You have a president eager to show he’s tough on immigration. What does it matter to him, what happens to a boy like Carlos after he’s deported? He’s just a number to him, another thing to make him appear to fulfill his promises.”

“But Carlos isn’t a _criminal_ ,” Finn insists. “He’s just a kid! And he needs protection. Isn’t that the whole point of this asylum thing?”

“You’d think that. Most would think that.” Cassian glances at Ben.

It’s the first time he’s acknowledged him since joining them under the tree. Cassian studies him closely now, and Ben grows uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

“You look like the typical, red-blooded American.” Cassian sizes him up. “Let’s see what you think. You know what asylum is, yes?”

Ben nods.

“Then let’s have a little test.” Cassian scoots in. “I describe a scenario, and you tell me whether the person qualifies for asylum. What do you say?” 

Ben hesitates, wary of a trap. “Sure,” he agrees carefully.

“So, let’s say there’s a boy,” Cassian begins. “A fifteen-year-old boy in Guatemala City. He’s a good boy— does his homework, plays with his friends, gets a little rowdy but listens to his mother. And one day, this boy is walking home from school when a young man approaches him. The man tells the boy he can make more money than he’s ever dreamed, that pretty girls will hang from his arms and all he has to do is join a little club.” Cassian pauses, searching Ben.

“MS-13?” Ben supplies.

“Ah.” Cassian looks impressed. “So, you’re familiar with them. Nice little club, is it not?”

Ben darkens.

He’s read the stories. MS-13 may the most violent gang in the world. They’re certainly the most cruel. 

Ben shakes his head slowly.

“Smart man.” Cassian’s lips twitch. “The boy’s smart too. He knows what this man’s about, and he wants none of it, so he scurries away. But the man… He keeps coming back. He learns the various paths the boy takes to his house, starts bringing others with him, and they pester him— _join us!_ Soon, they stop asking so nicely. They come into his school, threaten to kill him and his sister if he doesn’t join. The mother goes to the police, but the police do nothing because no one crosses the gangs, and besides…” Cassian grunts. “Half the police are working with them.”

Ben’s lips twist grimly.

Doesn’t surprise him…

“And so the boy stops going to school, stays home. One day, his sister doesn’t come back from class when she should. The mother, the whole neighborhood, goes on a search, and they find her by a garbage dump. She’s alive, but…” Cassian looks away. “Something precious has been stolen from her.”

Goosebumps prickle up Ben’s arms. He glances at Finn, but he’s boring holes in the ground.

“So…” Cassian takes a breath. “The mother, she’s not rich, but she scrapes together money to hire a Coyote and smuggle her children to the United States where they have a cousin. The sister doesn’t make it, but the boy does, surrendering himself at the border. They put him in a cage, but unlike many others, this boy has family here, an American no less. He comes to take the boy in, give him a home, then hires a lawyer to file for asylum so he can stay.”

A long pause. There’s still chatter around the gazebo, contrasting sharply with the mood under the tree.

“So.” Cassian zeroes on Ben. “What do you think? Should the boy be granted asylum?”

“Absolutely.” Ben doesn’t hesitate. “He’s a classic case of credible fear— his life threatened by a paramilitary group that his country’s government can’t or won’t control. People like him are why asylum exists.”

Cassian gives him a strange look. For the first time, he seems to really see Ben. “You’re a lawyer, aren’t you?” He asks abruptly.

Ben jerks back. “I, uh…” He stumbles. “Have a degree, but I never studied asylum.”

“Your answer to the scenario suggests otherwise.” Cassian dips his chin. “You understand the legal conditions for asylum quite well.”

“You’re a _lawyer?_ ” Finn gapes at Ben.

“I don’t practice anymore,” Ben dismisses, eager to change the subject.

“Well, Mr. Lawyer.” Cassian sits up. “I’m sorry to tell you you’re wrong. Asylum claims like this are almost always rejected in the United States.”

Ben knits his brow.

 _Really?_ That can’t be right…

He makes a mental note to look this up later.

“Wait a second…” Finn lifts a hand. “If Poe knows the claim will get rejected, why is he even trying? Doesn’t he have other options because Carlos is his cousin? Can’t he get status through, uh…” He snaps his fingers, searching for the right word. “Chain migration! That’s it.”

Cassian snorts. “Ah Finn…” he scolds gently. “Take care where you get your news. Contrary to what some would have you believe, only immediate family can apply for status this way, and even then, it takes a long time. I believe the wait for Guatemalans is…” He squints at the tree. “Twenty-seven years.”

“Twenty-seven _years._ ” Finn’s jaw drops.

“That’s how legal immigration works, my friend.” Cassian leans back, planting his palms on the grass. “People grow old waiting for their applications to get processed, meanwhile you Americans think it’s so easy.”

Ben narrows his eyes.

It can’t be _that_ hard. He makes another mental note to research later.

Cassian’s looking at the tree now, eyes cast inward to private thoughts.

“So…” Ben studies him closely. “How do you know all this? Do you know people in immigration law?”

“No,” he answers. “I just read. You Americans should try it some time. You’ll learn all sorts of things.” He smirks.

“So, you’re not an American?”

The instant the words leave his mouth, Ben regrets them.

Everyone under the tree goes still. Cassian sits up slowly, eyes sharp and focused on Ben. “You mean am I illegal?”

“ _No_.” Ben shakes his head. “That’s not what I said.”

“But that’s what you _meant_ ,” Cassian bites.

Ben parts his lips, fighting to maintain eye contact.

“Let me ask you something, Mr. Lawyer.” Cassian leans in. “Can a person be illegal?”

“I-I…” Ben searches for an answer.

 _Fuck_. When will he learn to keep his fucking mouth shut?

He shifts uncomfortably, intensely aware of Finn glaring at him. “I, uh… He clears his throat. “I think…” He starts slowly, buying some time. “A person can do illegal things.” A pause. “But that’s not who they are.”

Cassian hums. “Spoken like a man familiar with being defined by his worst actions, no?”

Ben stiffens.

 _God_ , this guy’s annoyingly perceptive…

Cassian studies him, seeming to look through him. “I think you know the answer to your question, Mr. Lawyer.” He leans back in the grass. “Which leaves me to wonder why you’d ask something you already know.”

Ben just stares, cursing his lack of mind-to-mouth filter.

“Perhaps you want a sad story, something like Carlos?” Cassian searches him. “You want to hear I was threatened, driven from my home by gangs, forced to flee for my safety?”

Ben remains silent.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you.” He looks away. “My story is much more ordinary. I come from a town in Mexico outside Agua Prieta. My family owned a farm but we fell on hard times, my mother started looking thinner, so I came here. Every month, I send back money, and she sends pictures. She’s gotten very fat.” He smiles to the tree. 

Ben watches shadows play over his face, leaves swaying in the breeze.

“I’m not an American, and I never will be.” Cassian says to the branches. “I work every day building your fences and your houses, planting your trees so you can eat the fruit. Meanwhile, you keep telling me I’m both lazy and stealing all your jobs.” He levels his gaze at Ben.

Ben stares dumbly. He wants to say something but his tongue is ash.

Cassian looks back to the tree, studying it in that strange way of his. Then, he abruptly pushes from the ground. “People are not illegal, my friend.” He turns to Ben. “They’re just people.” 

Ben looks up at him, a knot in his stomach. He nods. 

Cassian lingers on him before turning to Finn. “Good to see you.”

“You too.” Finn sits up, offering a hand.

Cassian takes it with a loose shake. He glances at Ben a final time, then strolls wordlessly to the gazebo.

Ben watches him go.

“ _Dude_.” Finn punches his shoulder. “What is _wrong_ with you? You don’t just go asking someone something like that!” He throws a hand to the gazebo.

“I…” Ben glances around sheepishly. “Have it on good authority I have foot-in-mouth syndrome.”

“ _Ya think?_ ” Finn cocks his head. “Maybe you should stick to being quiet and brooding from now on. It seems to work for you.”

“Yeah, alright.” Ben looks down, in no position to disagree.

Finn sighs. “It’s ok, man. I’m a dumbass too sometimes.”

Ben lets out a humorless laugh.

“Well...” Finn shifts. “I’m gonna go check on our drivers. Can I take your trash?” He stands, gesturing to the remnants of lunch.

“No. I’ve got it.” Ben shakes his head.

Finn scoops down to pick up his banana peel, then grabs Ben’s anyway along what’s left of his apple. He strides over to a garbage to dump it, then heads to the maintenance building.

The gazebo is quieter now, less chatter and more motion, the guys shuffling to clean up and pack the coolers

Ben pushes up slowly, lingering under the shade. He watches the other day laborers around the gazeebo, drifting over them one by one. He’s always assumed they were undocumented and never thought much beyond that. Now he wonders…

Where are these men from? What stories would they tell, if they were willing to tell them?

Just then, a memory flashes, a very old one. He must’ve been eleven when his mom took him on a business trip to Arizona. She loved to drag him to museums and galleries, try to expose him to different kinds of art and history.

This time she took him to an outdoor exhibit, an intricate collage made of trash. There were all sorts of things twisted into patterns— clothes, plastic bottles, toothbrushes, tuna cans, pacifiers.

They were all found objects from the Arizona desert, remnants lefts by migrants trying to cross into the U.S. on foot. He remembers placards with various facts about the journey, how hot it gets, the odds of survival, the number of people who die every year. At the center of the collage was a single question written in smudged chalk:

**_How far would you walk to feed your children?_ **

“Hey, Ben!”

Ben jerks up, snapping to where he heard his name.

“Come on.” Poe motions for him by the gazebo. “Help us get these coolers in the truck.”

Ben nods, moving to meet him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some not-so-fun facts… 
> 
> \- Central America’s Northern Triangle is often referred to as [“the murder capital of the world” ](https://www.wsj.com/articles/400-murders-a-day-the-crisis-of-latin-america-1537455390) due to high rates of gang violence. Gangs like MS-13 and Barrio 18 often recruit young men to join, [threatening them if they refuse.](https://www.theatlantic.com/international/archive/2018/06/central-america-border-immigration/563744/) They do the same to young women, coercing them to serve as heinas, or “girlfriends,” to be passed around among gang members. 
> 
> ***The numbers below pertain to the U.S.***
> 
> \- The number of asylum seekers from Central America has increased [since 2012,](https://www.dhs.gov/sites/default/files/publications/Refugees_Asylees_2014.pdf) rising from [505 to 36,174 claimants ](https://www.dhs.gov/sites/default/files/publications/immigration-statistics/yearbook/2018/refugees_asylees_2018.pdf) from Guatemala alone.  
> \- In 2018, [38,000 children and 104, 000 people travelling as families ](https://www.migrationpolicy.org/article/central-american-immigrants-united-states-2017)crossed the southern border as asylum-seekers. Once apprehended, these families were separated as part of a new policy to deter migration from Central America. The length of separation ranged [from five months to a year. ](https://www.aclu.org/issues/immigrants-rights/immigrants-rights-and-detention/family-separation)  
> \- It’s legal to cross the border as an asylum-seeker as long as [the claim is filed within a year of entering.](https://www.uscis.gov/humanitarian/refugees-and-asylum) The current administration has passed laws to block asylum claims from Central America, casting the burden to Mexico which has seen an increase in asylum claims from [29,648 to 80,000 in the past year. ](https://www.latimes.com/politics/la-na-pol-central-americans-asylum-protections-20190715-story.html)
> 
> ***The information below comes from a personal interview***
> 
> \- My sister is a lawyer who files asylum claims for minors fleeing gang violence in Central America. Poe’s cousin is a composite of her clients.  
> \- When I asked her what she wished more people knew about these claims, she told me the following: Since 2017, the vast majority are rejected. The people filing come from countries where the government can’t or won’t address the gang violence (in fact, many politicians and government officials work with them).  
> \- Since 2018, Immigration Services has increasingly sent back asylum claims citing errors that don’t exist or failure to follow rules very recently created. My sister and her colleagues suspect this is an effort to boost deportation numbers since their clients will be subject to deportation if their asylum application isn’t accepted for adjudication within a year of their entering the U.S. They call it “death by a thousand paper cuts.”
> 
> Chapter Citations:  
> \- The part about racial tensions between day laborers is based on [ this study](https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/10.1177/0002764218794232)  
> \- The part about Ben’s experience of race in prison is based on [ this podcast](https://www.earhustlesq.com/episodes/2017/9/13/unwritten)  
> \- It’s true that in U.S. family-based immigration, [only immediate family members](https://travel.state.gov/content/travel/en/us-visas/immigrate/family-immigration.html) can apply for a green card.  
> Wait times for green cards [are obscenely long](https://www.cato.org/publications/policy-analysis/immigration-wait-times-quotas-have-doubled-green-card-backlogs-are-long) for some countries. John Oliver has a [great segment](https://youtu.be/tXqnRMU1fTs?t=652) on this.  
> \- The art exhibit mentioned at the end of this chapter is based one by Debbi McCullough featured in the book [The Death of Josseline](https://books.google.com/books?id=sB92MDu_OK8C&pg=PT20&dq=%22the+death+of+josseline%22+%22feed+your+children%22&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwifk8PS7ZXWAhVB7iYKHbVqDMUQ6AEIKDAA#v=onepage&q=%22the%20death%20of%20josseline%22%20%22feed%20your%20children%22&f=false>The%20Death%20of%20Josseline</a>%20by%20Margaret%20Regan.%20There%20are%20still%20Arizona%20artists%20<a%20href=) by Margaret Regan. [Thousands of migrants die](https://www.nytimes.com/2020/08/18/magazine/border-crossing.html) each year trying to cross the Arizona desert.
> 
> The next update will be October 17th. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Question, if you're interested: What's one thing you wished people knew more about immigration in your country?


	3. Corruption

When Ben gets back to Luke’s just after 4:00, he’s a different man than when he left.

This morning, he was a bleary-eyed troll, growling and stumbling to his truck, already pissed that he’d back in a few hours with no money and a gas tank slightly emptier than before.

Now he’s got fresh twenties in his wallet, and he’s sore as hell, but the good kind of sore, muscles humming from a day of hard work. They’re already assuring his subconscious there’s no reason to feel guilty for spending the rest of the day on the couch staring at his phone. He earned it this time, and besides, it’s not like he’ll be on Reddit. He’s got research to do…

Ben shucks off his shirt, tossing it and heading to his charger. He plugs in his phone, hanging by a thread a 2%, but it should be charged enough to use by the time he gets out of the shower. He tries not to linger on how long it’s been since he felt this kind of fire, compelled to seek information until his research demon is sated. It used to happen once a month in law school, twice after nabbed a spot on the review journal.

It always happened for one of two reasons. The best one would be after an argument with some dumbfuck professor defending a position Ben _knew_ was wrong. He’d spend hours on Westlaw, building a case until he was certain that if the subject was ever raised again, he’d crush the fool who brought it up.

The second reason was less gratifying but more useful. It would happen after he got into a conversation or read something that made him doubt whether he knew as much as he thought he did. It’s the worst kind of insecurity, going from settled convictions to suddenly wondering if they’re wrong, and it made the ensuing research binge uncertain. It could end with him lying awake at night questioning his life choices as often as it did with him feeling self-assured. But he did it anyway, and it was always good for him. His opinions would get a little more nuanced, his understandings a little less biased…

Ben plops on the couch, bringing a boot to his knee. In his mind, he’s still under the tree with Cassian, replaying the conversation again and again.

He needs to look into asylum claims from those fleeing gang violence, read some case examples and find out how often they’re rejected. Then he needs to look into family-based immigration, see if the wait times are really as long as Cassian claims. What did he say it was for applicants from Guatemala? _Twenty-seven years?_

Ben pulls off a boot, brows furrowed.

He’s always been the type to say immigration is fine as long as it’s legal. There’s no reason to circumvent the law when there are so many paths to citizenship, but now he’s wondering if those paths aren’t working properly or they work better for some than others. He’ll see what the research says… It’ll be difficult without access legal or academic databases, but he can get creative. Finding information has always been his strong suit.

He rises, starting for the shower. He can’t smell himself, but he’s sure he’s rank, sweat and grime caked to his skin. He’s halfway to the kitchen when there’s a knock behind him.

He halts, looking back. 

A figure hovers at the door, casting a shadow over the blinds.

He turns slowly.

That’s strange… He’s been at Luke’s for over a month now and aside from yesterday, not a single person has visited the house, not neighbors, not salesmen, not Bible thumpers looking to save his soul.

The figure knocks again, a little louder this time.

Ben steps forward, trying not to make a sound.

“Hello?” A female voice calls.

He stops dead.

_No…_

“Mr. Ren?” The girl calls again. “Are you there?”

He huffs quietly.

Well, what do you know? Someone’s a glutton for punishment…

“It’s Rey with the Resistance again.” The girl leans in, trying to peak through the blinds. “We spoke yesterday about voter registration.”

Ben keeps still, vacillating between backing away and confronting his little British pest.

“I know you’re in there.” She presses her face to the glass. “I have excellent hearing.”

Ben narrows his eyes.

He’s never been one to avoid confrontation.

A few swift strides, and he’s at the door, jerking it open.

“Oh!” The girl jumps back. “I-I…” She flusters. “I’m sorry. Is this… a bad time?” She looks anywhere but a him.

“What do you want?” He demands.

“I, uh…” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She’s wearing her little shorts from yesterday but she’s left the _Resist_ shirt and clipboard behind. “I was, uh…” She struggles to look him in the eye. “Hoping you might be interested in resuming our conversation.”

“Conversation?”

“Yes.” She tries to look at him but settles on his chest instead.

That’s when he remembers he’s shirtless and covered in dried sweat.

“You….” The girl’s turning red. “Suggested I do some research, and I did.”

“Is that right?” He looks her over and can’t help but notice she’s showing a little more skin today, the flat of her stomach exposed under a loose crop top.

She didn’t come here thinking she could flash a little belly and get him to vote, did she? If so, he’s happy to have turned the tables on her.

“That’s right.” She finally looks him in the eye. “I took a night off beer bong and went to the library.”

Ben grunts.

Ah. Now he gets it. She’s a little salty after yesterday…

“The library, huh?” He crosses his arms. “So, you’re telling me you went to a physical building with actual books and spent an evening in the stacks?” 

The girl snorts. “No, grandpa. I used a computer. I did use the library’s databases, though.”

“So, what? You want a medal for not using Google?”

“ _No..._ ” She’s careful of her tone. “I just found some information about voting I’d like to share with you, if you’re interested.” She tries to look him in the eye, but he can tell she’s distracted by his scars, the one cutting across his cheek, the ugly gash on his right shoulder.

He sets his jaw.

He should slam the door on her again. She’s got some nerve showing up here after he _explicitly_ told her he’s not buying what she’s selling.

The girl looks at him with clear, brown eyes, waiting for a response. She seems innocent but also determined, a fire lurking under the surface.

He recognizes that fire… This could easily be him ten years ago.

“Fine.” He leans against the doorframe. “Let’s hear it.”

Rey perks up, surprised but pleased. She quickly pulls her phone from a back pocket and swipes the screen. Ben watches as she navigates, noticing her bra is very pink and very visible under her crop top.

“Alright,” she says, scrolling down. “So, yesterday you told me voting doesn’t matter, but I ran across something _very_ interesting last night.” She looks up but immediately looks away again. “Actually…” She shifts a little. “Um… Maybe this would be easier if you put a shirt on?” She glances up tentatively.

He blinks.

Silence.

“Ok, then.” She tucks her chin, returning to her phone. She takes a moment to collect herself, then looks up. “Did you know that in the last election, the current president won by an incredibly small margin, just 80,000 votes? That’s a _tiny_ percentage of voters, small enough to fit into a football stadium.” She pauses, letting this settle.

He doesn’t react.

“ _And_ …” She scrolls down. “The outcome of election was decided by a handful of counties, some of which were won by a _very_ small margin, as little as a hundred votes in one case and just over—”

“Were any of those in Louisiana?”

“Well…” She hedges. “No.”

“Hm.” He keeps his arms crossed, leaning against the frame. “Louisiana has a consistent track record for voting a certain way in presidential elections, does it not?”

“Actually, the state went blue in the nineties,” Rey answers quickly. “And once in the 70’s.” 

“But it’s been red since 2000 and is currently part of the incumbent’s base?” He arches a brow.

Her shoulders fall. “Yes,” she grudges.

“So, you could argue votes don’t matter in this state because the outcome will be the same no matter what.”

“But, see!” She points to him. “ _That’s_ the problem right there. Louisiana’s more politically diverse than many people realize, and if more made it to the polls, it could even be a swing state. The only reason it’s not is because people like you stay home thinking their vote doesn’t matter.”

“Yes,” Ben deadpans. “I’m sure my one vote would inspire the apathetic hoards.”

“It could,” Rey nods, completely ingenuous. “Studies have found peer influence to be a major factor in voter turnout. They give out those “I voted” stickers for a reason. People see them or social media posts and they’re struck with this feeling that they _should_ be voting. Then, they vote and they tell their friends, the process repeats itself, and before you know it, a thousand more people show up at the polls.”

He looks away, suppressing an eye roll.

“Have you ever heard of the Butterfly Effect?” Rey tilts her head. “Like a butterfly flaps its wings and causes a hurricane on the other side of the world? I’ve always loved that theory, that the little things we do could have a _huge_ impact, maybe one we’re not even aware of. I like to think everything we do matters.” She smiles. “You never know when you might cause storm or even a political movement…?” She searches his face. 

He stares blankly.

“Well…” Her smile falters. “As it turns out, you’re in good company when it comes to not voting. Did you know nearly half of Americans don’t vote? What’s that number again…” She returns to her phone, scrolling. “Ah. Here we are. Only 55% of eligible Americans voted in the last election. Quite small for the world’s leading democracy, don’t you think?”

“It is…” Ben agrees. “And have you considered there’s a reason for that?”

“Yes.” Rey lifts her chin. “Apathy. People like you who think their votes don’t matter, when they _absolutely_ can. Just imagine if 5% more people showed up for this election. It could be a game changer— enliven the rest of the electorate, breathe new life into American democracy.”

“You think so, huh?”

“I _know_ so. The United States hasn’t been doing so well lately, but if all the people who normally stay home got out and let their voices be heard, it could be a completely different country, a _better_ country.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that Americans don’t vote because they know no one’s _listening?_ ” Ben bites. “Has it occurred to you that our government’s so corrupt they’ve lost faith in democracy altogether?”

Her brows draw together.

“Tell me something.” He pushes from the doorframe. “When you went on your little research binge last night, did you look up _anything_ I told you yesterday, or did you just search for information that supports your beliefs about voting?”

Rey parts her lips, but says nothing.

“That’s what I thought.” He settles back against the frame. “Pro-tip, sweetheart— If you want to win someone over, research their position first so you can understand it and deconstruct it. Who knows? Maybe you’ll even find something you agree with.”

She narrows her eyes. “And what makes _you_ an authority on persuasion?”

“I don’t know,” he says casually. “I picked up a thing or two in law school.”

“You went to _law school?_ ” She gapes. “You’re a _lawyer?_ ” She looks him over, no doubt noticing the signs of hard labor.

“I used to be,” he dismisses. “But I don’t need a law degree to tell the difference between someone who wants to persuade and someone who wants to prove they’re right for the sake of being right.”

Rey jerks back, a little wounded. She drops her arms by her sides, phone loose in her hand. “I…” She stumbles. “That’s not why I’m here. You’ve got it all wrong. I really do want you to vote, and if I’m not doing a good job of convincing you…” She bites her lip. “Then, help me do better. Why don’t we sit down so you tell me more about why you don’t vote, and I _promise_ I’ll listen.”

He tilts is chin up, suspicious.

“Scout’s honor.” She raises hand. “And if you don’t think I’m giving you a fair shake, you can kick me right out.”

“You want to come _inside?_ ”

“Well… yeah.” She shifts. “It’s hot out, and you’re wasting AC by keeping the door open.”

“I…” He glances at the street behind her. “Don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because….” He tries to look at her face and not her bra, or her bare stomach, and _definitely_ not her legs. “You’re _twelve_ , and I’m not keen on getting arrested.”

“I’m twenty-one, you _jackass_.” She puts a hand on her hip. “Besides, I’m not trying to seduce you. I just want to talk.”

He squints, looking her over.

A second later, he steps back. “Wait here.” He shuts the door, ignoring her protest.

He stalks through the house straight to the laundry room and fishes a shirt out of a hamper. He’s not entirely sure is clean but it looks alright… He lifts it over his head as he staggers into the kitchen, going for the fridge. He grabs a couple waters, then heads back to the door.

Rey straightens when he opens it, glancing at his shirt. She almost looks disappointed.

“Come on.” He hands her a water. “Let’s sit on the porch. It’s not so hot anymore.”

She raises a brow, but doesn’t say anything.

He takes a seat on the top step, and she follows, settling beside him. He looks over the walkway lined with banana trees, surveying the houses across the way. Sprinklers are going off at one of them, but no one’s outside, and the street’s empty except for a couple cars on the shoulder. As far as he knows, none of the neighbors aware of his existence, and he’d like to keep it that way.

He glances at Rey.

She’s taking a swig of water, a knee tucked in her chest. She looks so casual, like she does this all the time, just sits on some stranger’s front porch talking politics.

“Alright.” She sets down her water. “Tell me Kylo, what’s so corrupt about the government that keeps you from voting?”

He freezes.

_Kylo…?_

For a split second, a dozen horror stories play in his mind before he remembers he gave her his nickname in prison.

He clears his throat. “Well for starters, politicians don’t actually represent the people, just the ones who fund their campaigns.”

“Ah.” Rey parts her lips in recognition. “I see where this is going. Corporations have hijacked the government. Dark money! Superpacs! Citizens United!”

“You think it’s bullshit?”

“No, I think it’s true.” She shifts, crossing her legs. “At least to an extent. There’s gotta be some reason there are more co2 restrictions in Europe and not here.” She smirks. 

“Don’t be smug.” He dips his chin. “You idiots are trying the leave EU, so you don’t get to take credit for their progress.”

“ _Ugh!_ ” She throws her head back. “Don’t remind me.”

He quirks a smile.

“But seriously, I know money has a major influence in U.S. politics. It’s definitely a problem, but to say it means voting doesn’t matter _at all?_ ” Rey scrunches her face. “That I don’t buy. Pun intended.”

“So, you don’t think the problem’s so bad?”

“No, it’s _bad_. I just don’t think it invalidates voting. With the right people in office, you could make improvements, crack down on lobbyists, put limits on campaign funds and such.” 

Ben grunts. “You make it sound so easy…” He studies her. “Tell me something— when you picture money corrupting the government, what do you see?”

“Lobbyists.” Rey shrugs. “Corporate cronies trying to weasel their way into politicians’ pockets, and the crooked ones letting them, making it harder for all the good ones to do their jobs.”

“ _Wrong_.” Ben nearly cuts her off. “That’s exactly what people don’t understand. Money doesn’t affect _some_ politicians; it affects _all of them_ , even the good ones. The whole system’s corrupt, and no one can be a part of it without getting corrupted.”

“So…” Rey eyes him. “You’re saying _every_ politician, from the president to all representatives in congress, take money on the condition they’ll do political favors?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “It’s more complicated than that, and a lot more subtle.”

“Subtle how?” She tilts her chin up.

Ben looks away.

He knows how to explain this, but he needs to be careful. There’s no reason Rey would know much about his mother, but he’d rather be safe than sorry…

He turns to face the walkway, taking a moment to think.

“Imagine a politician,” he starts finally. “Someone young, passionate about the issues, and well-loved because she has a reputation for punching above her weight class. She’s elected as an agent for change, someone who cares about vulnerable people, but when she gets to the Senate, she quickly learns two things.” He looks to Rey.

She’s listening with rapt attention.

“The first thing is it’s nearly impossible to pass legislation on issues that matter because the Senate’s tied up with things like whether banks can charge a fee when customers overdraw. This is what dominates the floor, and the young senator realizes it’s because these things impact campaign donors. It _infuriates_ her that so many of her colleagues have gotten distracted from the real issues, but she soon understands why. And that’s the second thing she learns.” He leans in. “She’s not immune from this influence.”

Rey’s eyes flicker.

“She’s not even a month into office before she has to think about raising money for her next campaign. This means lots of calls, lots of going to fundraisers, and lots of schmoozing with lobbyists.”

“Wait a minute.” Rey lifts a hand. “Can’t she just raise money from the people who voted for her, all those vulnerable people she wants to help?”

“She can.” Ben nods. “And she does, but it’s not enough. She has to go for the big donors, and this is where things get sticky.” He turns to face her. “There’s no quid pro quo going on here. She’s not accepting money on conditions. But relationships are being formed and these relationships come with expectations. When the senator gets a call from a big donor, she always takes it. As time goes on, she finds herself talking more with her big donors than the people in her base. She’s _close friends_ with some of them, and when she votes on legislation that affects them, she rationalizes reasons to vote in their favor. She especially does this as she nears the end of her term because if she wants to make a difference, she needs to stay in office.”

Rey looks down.

“So, she gets a second chance, but she’s in the same position all over again. She can’t push through legislation on health care and education because laws on farm subsidies and copyright protection dominate the floor. She can fight for the real issues all she wants but everyone around her is stuck in this game of appealing to donors, and she is too. By her third term, she spends more time fundraising than she does legislating, and she gets so fed up with it, she withdraws from the race so she can do something that _actually helps_ the people she got into office for in the first place.”

Rey stares at her hands, brows furrowed. Ben can see her working, like she’s solving a math problem.

“That…” She finally sags. “ _Sucks._ ”

Ben smirks. “And I barely scratched the surface. I didn’t even get to the part where half the people she worked with were once lobbyists for corporations. They advocated for big pharma, then nabbed a spot in the U.S. Department of Health. They worked for the coal industry, then got a position on the E.P.A.”

“Aren’t there _laws_ against that?”

“A few.” He leans back, stretching his legs over the steps. “They’re used to be a lot more, but the current president rolled a lot of them back. He _loves_ lobbyists. Half the people in his cabinet used to be lobbyists.”

“Drain the swamp, _my ass_.” Rey scowls. “How are his supporters not _infuriated?_ ”

“They probably don’t know.” Ben shrugs. “Most people don’t keep up with that kind of thing, and besides, they voted for the guy _because_ he was an outsider. They thought they could trust him over long-time politicians, but the problem isn’t with politicians. It’s the _entire system_ , and it’s getting worse. Citizens United opened up the floodgates. Campaigns are more expensive than ever, and Congress is so partisan they won’t work together to change anything, especially when they all benefit to some degree. Even the good ones are still people. They like cozying up to elites and getting favors for their kids.” 

Rey frowns. “But there must to be _something_ that can be done. The way you tell it, it affects every issue people actually care about— gun control, education, health care, climate change, immigration. This might just be the one thing Americans could agree on, don’t you think?”

He snorts. “Maybe in an alternate universe where Democrats and Republicans don’t hate each other so much they can’t see anything else. And even the parties could come together, it’d take a _massive_ reform movement, a president and a majority in congress committed to change.”

“That could happen.” Rey scoots in. “It would difficult but not impossible. I think Americans would _absolutely_ put their differences aside to focus on this issue if someone explained it to them like you did.”

“Honey…” Ben shakes his head. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but hate between parties runs deep in this country. It’s not just political. It’s _personal_. I’m sure you know people who’ve cut off family members after the last election?”

She twists her lips to one side.

“ _No one’s_ working together as long as it’s like this. The other side’s not just bad. They’re evil, and when that’s the attitude, coming together on anything is tantamount to betrayal. Compromise doesn’t exist in this country. Not anymore.”

Rey twitches. He can tell she doesn’t accept this. She swings forward on the steps, turning the problem over in her mind. 

He watches, holding in a sigh.

So young…

She’ll learn soon enough. Americans are happy to let their democracy burn as long as the enemy burns with them.

He looks to the walkway, catching sight of a butterfly just as it disappears behind a banana tree. It emerges on the other side, a swallowtail with yellow wings and black edges. He thinks about Rey’s love of the butterfly effect…

He must admit, it’s nice to talk to someone so optimistic, someone who hasn’t gotten crushed by life yet. Rey reminds of his mom in the old days, bright and unsinkable, certain every problem can be solved if only you fight hard enough.

For a moment, an image flashes, Leia when she was young and full of spunk. She used to take him to the Senate all the time, and he’d watch her argue with other senators. She never took any shit and had a way turning their own words against them.

He sinks when he remembers the last time he saw her. The contrast couldn’t be more stark… 

He swallows hard.

Surely, Rey’s not planning to go into politics. He hates the idea of her light getting snuffed out like that. Has she mentioned her major…?

He glances at her.

She’s focused on her hands, rubbing them together as she thinks.

“Figured it out yet, champ?”

She looks up. 

“How you’ll start the revolution? Purge America of corruption?”

“Don’t tease.” She sits up. “I just might do it. It’d be a great irony, wouldn’t it? If a Brit swooped in to save your democracy.” She flashes her eyes.

He grunts, lips twitching.

They share a long look.

“I’m sorry,” Rey says abruptly.

“For what?” He tilts his head.

“For…” She shifts a little. “Coming at you all guns blazing earlier. To be honest…” She presses her lips together. “I made an assumption about you, and it turned out to be wrong. You’re really quite smart. I never would’ve guessed you were a lawyer.”

“Yeah, well…” He looks away. “That was a long time ago.”

“It couldn’t have been _that_ long. How old are you? Thirty?”

“Thirty-three.”

“What kind of law did you practice? Constitutional?”

“No,” he huffs. “Corporate. I worked for the bad guys. Broke my mother’s heart.”

“Why’s that? Was she a lawyer too?”

“No. Well… kind of. She studied law but never got a degree. She ran a non-profit for low-income communities, raised money for schools, offered free legal services, that kind of thing.” 

“Ah.” Rey parts her lips. “So, why didn’t you go work for her?”

“I…” Ben stiffens. “Chose the wrong mentor, got side-tracked. Now, I’m here.”

“Is she here too?”

“No. She passed away a couple years ago.”

“Oh.” Rey softens. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s ok.” He focuses on the walkway. “We made up by the end. No one fought harder for me than she did.”

Rey bites her lip. “Well… Thank you for taking the time to talk with me. You were right. I should’ve looked into what you told me yesterday. I’m ashamed I don’t know more about it. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

He looks at her.

She’s staring at him in that ingenuous way of hers, brown eyes soft. “I’ll probably go to the library again tonight, look into it more. What should I start with? Citizens United?”

“Sure.” He sits up. “And McCain-Feingold, the law it overturned. Look into Campaign Finance Reform and Lawrence Lessig. He’s a lawyer who’s big into that stuff. Even ran for president in the last election.”

“Oh really?” She arches a brow. “Did you vote for him?”

“He withdrew before the primaries.” His lips twist grimly. “Couldn’t raise enough campaign funds.”

“That’s too bad.” Rey frowns. “I’ll definitely be on the lookout for politicians who prioritize this issue.” She narrows her eyes, something brewing in them.

Uh oh…

There it is again, that fire under the surface.

“You still want me to vote, don’t you?” He asks abruptly.

“I…” She purses her lips. “Think you’ve made a lot of valid points. You’ve definitely cast doubt on the value of voting.” A pause. “But I still think voting matters, _especially_ in a presidential election. Think about it, Kylo. Presidents have _so much_ power— they appoint Supreme Court justices, pass executive orders, shape the political conversation. The president’s priorities are the country’s priorities, and you should have _a say_ in that.”

“Rey.” He sighs. “If you’re going to make an argument for voting, you should be encouraging me to vote in local elections. It’s easier to hold city politicians accountable to the people, and votes _actually_ have an impact on the outcome.”

“But voting isn’t just about the outcome,” she protests. “It’s about _sending a message_. It says, ‘Hey! I exist, and I’m _watching you_.’ Even if you’re in a state that swings against you, if you’re just another notch in the popular vote, it’s a way making yourself known, not just to the president but the whole world. You’re saying, ‘I am an American, and this is what I value!’ And especially since—” She stops herself. “Since…” She trails off.

He studies her. She’s struggling with something, though he’s not sure what.

“We…” She looks down, fidgeting. “We’re not supposed to be partisan.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“The Resistance, or at least the registration drive. I’m not supposed to encourage you to vote for a certain candidate. It’s against the rules.”

Ben laughs softly. “I’m pretty sure you’ve already broken the rules coming here a second time. Besides, you don’t have your shirt or your clipboard. Is this even an official visit?”

Rey quirks her head. “Actually, _no_ ,” she says decidedly. “It’s not.”

“Then, you can say whatever want.”

She takes exactly one second to consider this, then swings to face him.

“I _know_ you’ve been paying attention to what this president’s been doing.” She leans in. “This isn’t even about party anymore. It’s about basic human decency. Americans _have_ to let the world know this isn’t who they are. I mean have you seen what’s gone on at the border? Thousands of families coming here in good faith to seek asylum just to be ripped apart, infants _literally_ taken from their mother’s breast?”

Ben darkens. His thoughts immediately go to Poe’s cousin.

“The president claims it discourages them from coming, but they’re fleeing _gang violence_ , for Christ’s sake. Which do you think parents will choose? Watching their children get killed or coming here and getting separated for a few months?” She widens her eyes. “Meanwhile it’s causing _immeasurable_ damage to these kids for literally _no reason_ other than pure cruelty. I watched a video of a little boy with his mom after being separated. He was screaming about how she abandoned him and didn’t really love him. He doesn’t understand what was going on. All he knows is his mom left and he got thrown in a cage like _a dog_. It’s not right, and you Americans can’t stand for it anymore. You _have_ to speak up.” She leans in. “You _have_ to vote.”

Ben stares, unable to look away. She’s so intense, eyes like embers.

After a moment, Rey looks down. She seems to deliberate with herself, then finally reaches for her back pocket. She pulls out an envelope, a little wrinkled and folded in half.

“What’s that?” He looks between her and the envelope.

“An application to vote.” She offers it. “I figured you threw away the one I gave you yesterday.”

He doesn’t confirm, studying it.

“Kylo.” She takes a breath. “I _really_ did come here because I want you to vote. I believe every vote counts, _especially_ this time, _especially_ with people like you who normally stay home. You _have_ to show the world this isn’t who Americans are.” Her eyes plead with his. “Just consider it, will you? Send in the paperwork so you at least have the option come November?”

Ben studies her, her face just a few inches away.

He’s not sure he’s ever seen someone care so much so visibly. It’s like she swallowed the sun, every part of her glowing with conviction, and for the first time, he realizes how beautiful she is.

It’s not just her face. It’s that fire he misses so much. She’s everything he once was— strong, passionate, determined to remake the world with her bare hands. It almost hurts to look at her, to realize how much he’s lost…

He looks to the envelope, studying it a moment.

Then, he takes it.

“So…” Rey searches his face. “You’ll send it?”

He unfolds the envelope, inspecting.

It’s already stamped and addressed, “Kylo Ren” written as the sender.

He runs a thumb over the scrawl. “I’ll fill it out tonight and mail it tomorrow.”

“ _REALLY!?_ ” She lights up. Before he can react, she lunges, squeezing him in a hug.

Ben stills.

He can only imagine what he smells like, but Rey doesn’t seem to notice, her arms wrapped tightly around him.

She pulls back, flushed and grinning. “You just made my day. My _whole year_. Seriously, Kylo. This means _so much._ ”

“Don’t get too excited.” He shifts a little. “I didn’t say I’d vote. I just said I’d register.”

“Right.” Rey sobers. “Yes. Of course. But remember— The price good men pay for indifference is to be ruled by evil men.”

“And what makes you think I’m a good man?”

She quirks her head like she’s surprised he would doubt this. “A hunch,” she says, lips curling. 

He stares at her, a stone falling in his chest.

Would she say that if she knew the truth? Would she even be here, sitting with him, listening to him, if she knew what he’d done, where he’s been?

His throat tightens.

Of course not. If she knew the truth, she wouldn’t see him at all. She’d just see a criminal, someone to fear. 

He looks to the walkway. A car drives by, slowing to pull into a house across the street.

Ben pushes from the steps, rising.

Rey follows. “Thanks again for hearing me out. And for, you know…” She laughs a little. “Not slamming the door in my face.”

“No problem.” He eyes her. “Though next time that happens, you should probably stay away.”

“Yeah, probably…” She twists her lips to one side. “But there’s something about a closed door that makes me more determined. Besides, you never know when you might get to someone.” She squints playfully. 

He shakes his head. “See you around, kid.” He turns for the door.

“See you.” Rey hangs on the steps. “Seriously, we might run into each other. I don’t live far, and I like to ride my bike here. It’s the only neighborhood with good lanes. In fact…” She hesitates.

He looks back, standing in the doorway.

“Would you, uh… mind if I came by again?” She asks shyly. “Just to clarify some things if I need to.”

“What things?”

“Just what we talked about, corruption and all that. I might have some questions after I do the research.”

“Uh… sure,” he agrees slowly. “But I’m no expert.”

“You know more than I do,” she insists. “And definitely more than my friends. Besides, I like talking with you. You’re easy to talk with.”

He chokes on a laugh.

Rey’s confused by this reaction, searching him with those soft, brown eyes.

There’s a tug in his heart.

“You’re welcome any time,” he tells her, putting a little warmth in it. “I might even let you in the house.”

“Oh really?” She wiggles a brow. “How hospitable of you. You must be starting to like me.” She grins.

“Maybe a little.” He looks away. He hesitates before turning into the house. “Goodbye, Rey.”

“Goodbye!” She lingers on the steps. “Remember to mail your registration tomorrow. It has to be postmarked by Saturday.”

“Will do.” He nods, closing the door.

He moves into Luke’s study but instead of continuing to the hall, he goes to the window. The blinds are closed tight, but light streams through the sides.

Rey doesn’t leave immediately. He hears her loitering on the steps, long enough for him to wonder what she’s doing. Finally, there’s footsteps, but they’re slow and indecisive.

He can’t resist nudging one of the blinds to sneak a peek.

She’s making her way down the walkway, but she keeps looking back like she’s trying to catch sight of him.

He pulls away a little. 

She stops at the street, turning to face the house again. She searches it, biting her lip. After a minute, she starts down the street but turns back after a few steps. She lingers in front of the walkway, then shakes her head, muttering to herself. He can’t hear her, but he thinks she mouths “stupid” or something like it. 

Ben watches as she scurries away.

He steps back from the window, the realization settling.

He’s been in prison too long. _Clearly_. He used to be better at telling when someone has a crush on him…

He works his jaw.

 _Shit_. He even told her she could come over again. He might as well have asked her on a _fucking date_. Now he’s going to have some college kid with a schoolgirl crush knocking on his door every other damn day.

He does his best to scowl but finds his lips curling instead.

She is pretty. And she does look very nice in a crop top…

 _Jesus_. 

He shakes his head.

Is there anything creepier than an ex-con lusting after a girl barely out of her teens? He’s a walking stereotype, the predatory criminal lying to a young woman about who he really is. _Thank God_ he didn’t let her in the house…

He needs to rid of her. It shouldn’t be too hard. All he has to do is give her is real name and wait for her to Google it.

His heart sinks.

He looks down at the envelope still in his hand, remembering how Rey lit up when he told her he’d send it.

He lifts it to inspect.

Her handwriting is messy, letters curved with a little flair. He studies it for the better part of a minute.

Then, he crumples it in a fist. He moves to the bin by Luke’s desk, chucking the envelope and stomping out of the study.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some not-so-fun facts… 
> 
> \- Research shows politicians in the U.S. spend between [30 to 70% of their time fundraising.](https://daily.jstor.org/lawrence-lessig-how-to-repair-our-democracy/)  
> \- The cost of congressional elections has risen steadily over the past two decades. Adjusting for inflation, money spent on elections [has tripled since 1998.](https://www.opensecrets.org/elections-overview/cost-of-election?cycle=2020&display=T&infl=Y)  
> \- Candidates who raise more money than their opponents are [more likely to win.](https://www.jstor.org/stable/pdf/23784363.pdf?refreqid=excelsior%3Af8af3faff1e355823cab899cd630fffd) Campaign funds have an even greater influence on [which candidates make it through the primaries.](https://news.ufl.edu/articles/2018/10/money-in-elections-doesnt-mean-what-you-think-it-does.html)  
> \- The Supreme Court decision on Citizens United vs. FEC resulted in a significant increase in campaign spending, especially through independent groups like super PACS. Individual donations to PACs grew from [$299 million in 2014 to $1.1 billion in 2016.](https://www.latimes.com/world-nation/story/2020-01-12/citizens-united-ruling-anniversary-how-it-changed-american-politics) The ruling also made it more difficult to determine the source of campaign donations.  
> \- When lobbyists host fundraising events for a congressional representative, it increases the likelihood that representative will [add an amendment favoring the lobbyists’ interest group](https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/10.1177/1065912918771745) to current legislation.  
> \- Research on congressional rhetoric and policymaking shows that representatives devote [significantly more attention to issues that affect the wealthiest Americans](https://www.russellsage.org/how-campaign-donations-influence-congressional-economic-agenda) rather than the middle or lower-class. For example, Congress is more likely to [pass legislation on property taxes and copyright protection than health care and minimum wage.](https://americanaffairsjournal.org/2019/08/corporate-power-beyond-lobbying/)  
> \- [72% of Americans](https://www.pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2018/05/08/most-americans-want-to-limit-campaign-spending-say-big-donors-have-greater-political-influence/) believe money has too much influence over American politics. 71% of Republicans and 85% of Democrats agree there should be limits on spending for political campaigns. 
> 
> Chapter Citations:  
> \- The current president won the last election with just under 80,000 votes. You really can [fit that many people into a mid-sized football stadium.](https://www.vanityfair.com/news/2016/12/hillary-clinton-margin-loss-votes) He won counties in Wisconsin and Michigan by [as little as 109 votes.](https://thehill.com/homenews/state-watch/459832-the-10-counties-that-will-decide-the-2020-election)  
> \- Studies show that [ peer influence impacts voter turnout.](https://www.sciencenewsforstudents.org/article/4-research-backed-ways-get-people-vote) The more you talk about voting with friends or on social media, the more likely people are to vote.  
> \- The U.S. has one of the [lowest rates of voter turnout among developed countries,](https://www.pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2018/05/21/u-s-voter-turnout-trails-most-developed-countries/) trailing behind the U.K., Canada, Germany, France, South Korea, Denmark, Slovakia, Mexico, and Hungary. Only 56% of eligible voters cast ballots in the last presidential election.  
> \- The current president has appointed [more ex-lobbyists to his cabinet ](https://apnews.com/08dce0f5f9c24a6aa355cd0aab3747d9) than either of the previous two presidents. In 2017, [he passed an executive order](https://www.politico.com/story/2017/01/trump-lobbying-ban-weakens-obama-ethics-rules-234318) loosening ethics rules put in place during the Obama administration to curtail the hiring of ex-lobbyists.  
> \- Lawrence Lessig is a professor at Harvard Law School and has written two books on the influence of money in politics. [He ran for president in 2016](https://www.newyorker.com/news/news-desk/why-i-ran-for-president) to advocate for campaign finance reform.  
> \- [This is the family separation video](https://youtu.be/VFJzKmdldos?t=814) Rey refers to. Please click with caution. 
> 
> The next update will be October 24th. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Question, if you're interested: What are some ways you see the influence of money on politics?


	4. Policing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: This is a "no Rey" chapter (the last one).

It’s pitch black when the phone rings.

The only reason Ben hears it is because it’s buzzing next to his cheek, a dozen tabs open on immigration and asylum law. He’s half asleep when he swipes the screen.

“Hello,” he slurs. 

“Oh, _thank God_.” The voice on the other end is vaguely familiar. “ _Thank God_ you answered.”

Ben blinks, dragging himself upright. He leans over to turn on the lamp, struggling with the sheets twisted around his legs. “Who is this?” He asks blearily.

“Oh…” The voice hesitates. “Sorry. It’s Finn, remember? We built that fence yesterday?”

Ben knits his brow. “Finn…” He pulls his phone away to check the time. “Why are you calling me at 2:00 A.M.?”

Finn’s silent a moment. “Ben.” He takes a breath. “Please believe me when I tell you I _would not_ be calling if I had any other option.”

“Option for what?”

A long pause. He hears a sigh followed by a muffled sound. Half a minute later, Finn finally speaks. “I… I need you to bail me out.”

“ _What?_ ” Ben sits a little straighter. 

“I need you to bail me out of jail,” Finn grits. “I’m at the station on Florida Boulevard, the one next to mall.”

Ben gapes, the phone loose in his hand.

“Listen.” Finn sighs. “I know you barely know me. I know you have no reason to do this or trust that I’ll pay you back. If I were in your shoes, I’d tell me to _fuck off_ , but…” He swallows.

Silence.

Seconds drag as Ben works his jaw.

“You know what?” Finn huffs. “This was a mistake. I’m sorry. I won’t—”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” Ben swings his legs over the bed.

“Wait… seriously?”

“Yes.” He rises, heading for the closet.

“That’s…” Finn lets out an exhale. “I don’t even know what to say. You have _no idea_ —”

“I’ll see you soon.” Ben hangs up before Finn can respond.

Three minutes later, and he’s in his truck, the address to the police station pulled up on his phone.

***

By the time Ben gets to the station, he’s wide awake. He walks swiftly to the building, already on edge.

There was a time in his life when he barely noticed police officers, didn’t blink an eye when he saw them. Now he can’t get near one without feeling like a mouse spotted by a predator.

And he’s about to walk into a hawk’s nest.

He’s keenly aware of his demeanor as he opens the door, careful to look calm, subdued even, attracting as little attention as possible.

The lobby is sparse with several rows of chairs over scuffed tile, florescent lights bringing out every imperfection on the walls. He’s relieved to see the place is nearly empty, only two people sitting far apart, one of them sleeping. He walks straight to the reception desk, stopping in front of the plexiglass.

The woman at the desk doesn’t look up. She’s focused on her computer, typing quietly, glasses perched on the end of her nose. She’s middle-aged and in uniform, braided hair wrapped in a bun.

Ben clears his throat.

The woman keeps her eyes on the screen. She has that disaffected look most government employees have, and Ben notices her computer looks ancient. He wonders how much time she spends fighting it every day…

He clears his throat again.

The receptionist sighs. “One moment.” She keeps typing.

Ben nods, folding his hands in front of him.

A minute passes.

The woman jams on the keyboard with deliberate punches, then finally looks up. “How can I help you?” She asks with dead eyes.

“I’m, uh…” Ben shifts. “Here to pick up a friend in detention.”

“Name?”

“Finn…” He trails off.

 _Shit_. What’s his last name?

He desperately scans his memory, the receptionist staring him down.

“Finn _Trooper?_ ” She supplies pointedly.

“Uh… yeah, that’s him.”

“You sure?” The woman dips her chin.

“Yes,” Ben says more confidently. “I’m sure.”

The receptionist looks doubtful, but turns to her computer anyway. She types quietly. “He’s through with booking, so it shouldn’t be too long. Bail’s posted at $500.”

Ben stiffens.

He was expecting as much, but hearing it doesn’t make it any better. The thought of handing over that much of his heard-earned money makes him die a little inside…

 _That kid better pay him back._ And _soon._

He slips his wallet from his pocket, opening it to thumb through fresh bills he just got from an ATM. He counts five hundred in twenties, then passes it under the glass.

The woman takes it without looking up. “Have a seat.” She gestures behind him. “He’ll be right out.”

Ben nods, turning to the chairs. He scans the rows, then picks a spot as far from the other two people as possible. He settles slowly in the seat, crossing his arms.

Of course. Of course his day would end like this, in a police station bailing out a stranger. It was one of the best days he’s had in years, so it must be followed by a reminder of how easy it is for everything to turn to shit. 

He sighs, rolling his head back.

The ceiling is cracked and ugly, florescent lights blinding.

He closes his eyes.

A wave of exhaustion sets in, and he fights it by reviewing the evening’s research. After hours on his phone, he learned just enough to confirm everything Cassian told him as well as grasp the depth of his ignorance when it comes to immigration law. He avoided those classes like the plague in law school, and after tonight, he’s even more confident in that choice. The system’s a clusterfuck, not to mention depressing. Who in their right mind would go into a profession like that, watching their clients get deported most of the time, often to miserable circumstances?

Bleeding hearts, that’s who. People who care too much for their own good. 

Instinctively, his mind drifts to Rey. He sees her sitting on the front porch, arguing passionately about family separation.

She’d be the type to do that kind of work. She wouldn’t settle for a job unless it was one where she could flap her little butterfly wings and try to make the world a better place. He never did ask what her major is…

He tries to recall if she mentioned it but finds himself thinking about her smile instead.

His eyes fly open. He sits up, passing a hand over his face.

_Dangerous waters, Solo..._

He can’t think like that, not if he has any hope of scaring her off the next time she shows up. He needs to put an end to her schoolgirl crush before one of them does something stupid. 

He nods to himself, fighting a twinge of disappointment.

It’ll best for both of them, her especially. She has her whole life ahead of her. The last thing she needs is to get tangled with an ex con with no future to speak of.

It shouldn’t be too hard. If there’s anything he excels at in life, it’s chasing people away. Then when it’s done, he can allow himself to imagine an alternate version of events, one where he lets her in the house.

Already, the movie plays in his mind. Rey shows up in her little crop top, and he teases her about harassing voters. She laughs him off, flashing that smile, and he opens the door wide to invite her in. She blushes a little, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, then steps forward—

_Damn it._

He jerks up.

Clearly, he has no will power…

He fishes his phone from his pocket, eager for a distraction. It’s 2:30 now, but he’s no stranger to late nights. Half the time he goes to bed, he wakes up at the devil’s hour, tossing and turning until it’s light outside.

He swipes the screen, then navigates through the open tabs on his browser. He settles on a page from Immigration Services.

This one’s on employment-based immigration, and he skims over the various types of status. Most are what he’d expect— ones for professors or physicians of extraordinary ability, certain types of translators, skilled workers and professionals. He stops when one catches his eye.

**Special Immigrant Juveniles**

Juveniles?

He thinks of Poe’s cousin.

He clicks on the link and another page loads. He reads it carefully.

The status doesn’t seem related to employment, though that’s no surprise. He’s learning very little in immigration law makes sense. Apparently, it pertains to undocumented juveniles under twenty-one who’ve been abused, abandoned, or neglected by a parent. If they meet certain guidelines, they can petition for protection and be granted a visa to work in the U.S.

He scrolls through the eligibility requirements, but he knows this won’t do a damn thing for Poe’s cousin. Nothing Cassian said indicated abuse or neglect by a parent. Though he did only mention the mother… Perhaps there are things he doesn’t know about the father?

Ben mulls over the possibility.

He snaps up at a loud click, followed by a scraping sound.

The door to the detention center opens, revealing a cuffed Finn escorted by an officer. The officer guides him to the lobby, unlocks his cuffs, then hands him a clear plastic bag. They talk quietly a moment, and Finn nods, head bowed. Finally, the officer turns to the door, keys in a code, and disappears.

Finn doesn’t move. He just stands there, staring at the floor. Ben can only see his profile, but it’s clear he’s exhausted, the line of his shoulders pointed down. He turns slowly.

Ben raises his eyebrows when he sees his face.

This _is not_ the kid he built a fence with yesterday. He looks like he’s been through a war, eyes sunken with a thousand-yard stare.

Ben stands and walks over. Finn looks up as he approaches, but doesn’t seem to see him.

“Hey.” Ben stops a foot away.

“Hey.” Finn doesn’t make eye contact.

Ben stands awkwardly a moment. “You, uh… ready to go?”

“ _Please._ ” Finn closes his eyes. “Yes, please. Let’s go.”

“Alright.” Ben hesitates. He has an urge to put a hand on Finn’s shoulder, strange since he’s never been the comforting type. Instead, he turns for the exit, Finn shuffling behind him.

They file wordlessly to the truck, Ben looking back every so often.

He knows that look on Finn’s face. He’s intimately familiar with it. There’s a particular cruelty to that kind of defeat, an emptiness like your whole personality has been sucked right out of you. Finn has that look, just a husk of himself, staggering mindlessly to the truck.

Ben unlocks it when they get there, Finn rounding the front and slipping into the passenger’s seat without a word. Ben settles on the driver’s side, turning on the engine and glancing at Finn.

He’s staring dead-eyed through the windshield.

Ben pulls up the navigation app on his phone, then looks to Finn.

He’s still staring.

“So…” Ben studies him. “Where to?”

Finn comes alive a little, blinking. “Sorry. 498 Ritner. It’s in Broadmoor.”

Ben nods, putting in the address. He pulls out slowly, mindful of two officers standing nearby, and coasts to the road. It’s a four lane, not quite a highway but clearly a major throughway. It might’ve been a main street at one time, but those days are long gone. Most of the shops are obviously shut down, the others in disrepair. There are a few restaurants and fast food joints but they’re closed this early in the morning.

Ben drives through the blackness, eyes on the road.

“Thank you,” Finn says abruptly.

Ben looks over. “Yeah. No problem.”

Finn nods but doesn’t say anything.

Ben refocuses on the road.

They drive in silence, Ben trying not to look at Finn too often. Normally, the silence wouldn’t bother him, but this is far from comfortable. Every second Finn is quiet, Ben feels an increasing urgency to ask him what happened and why he called him of all people.

The seconds drag. Ben checks the ETA on his phone.

They’ve got seventeen more minutes of this.

“So…” He purses his lips. “What happened?”

Finn sighs, slouched in his seat. “I got pulled over.”

“Ok…” Ben eyes him. “For what?”

“Cracked tail light.”

Ben knits his brow. He waits for Finn to continue.

They hum along the dark road, darker as they get further from town. Ben keeps looking at Finn but tries to be subtle about it.

Finally, Finn sits up. “I have priors.” He crosses his arms. “One for trespassing and one…” A beat. “For possession of marijuana, but it was a long time ago,” he adds quickly. “I was in high school and dumb as shit. I got out of that game a long time ago and been straight ever since, but the officer ran my license, saw that I had a record, and…” He sighs. “He asked to search my vehicle.”

“ _Bullshit,_ ” Ben spits without thinking. “Did he have probable cause?”

Finn perks up, looking at him for the first time. “He said my eyes were bloodshot, and he could smell weed, but _of course_ my eyes were bloodshot.” He jerks his arms apart. “I’d spent all day building a fence, then all night getting yelled at behind a bar, and if anything smelled weird, it was the string cheese my sister keeps leaving in the back seat!” He stabs a thumb to the back of the truck. “So, I told him _fuck no_ ; he can’t search my _fucking_ vehicle.”

“And what did he say?”

“That refusing a search means I’m hiding something, and he could get a warrant to search my car _and_ my house, so…” Finn rolls his head against the seat. “I got out of the car.”

“And he searched?”

Finn nods.

“Did he find anything?”

“ _No_ , because there was nothing to find except trash and dirty clothes. He searched for _thirty fucking minutes_ , then he pat me down and started asking a bunch of questions— Where’d I come from? Where was I going? Do I ever go to this place or that place? And I just…” Finn shakes his head. “I just _lost it_. I went off on him, and next thing I knew, he slamming against the car and arresting me for attempted assault on an officer.”

“Did you try to hit him?”

“ _NO!_ ” Finn squeaks. “I waved my hands a lot, but I was just angry and _tired_. I haven’t had a day off in months. I don’t have a clue where my mom is. I have no fucking friends because I work all the damn time. I haven’t gone on a date in two years. I’m just _run down_ and now…” He sinks. “My car’s impounded, my license is suspended, and I’ve got another arrest on my record.” He drags both hands over his face. “I just _cannot_ catch a break.”

Ben shifts, not sure what to say.

“I don’t know.” Finn pushes out an exhale. “You were a lawyer, right? Is there any way I can fight this? At least get my license back?”

Ben tsks. “You can try, but it’s probably not worth the effort. Judges usually don’t rule against police in cases where they felt threatened.”

Finn snorts. “Yeah, _he_ was the one who felt threatened, armed with a gun, a baton, and a taser. But no, I get it.” He lifts a hand. “All that’s nothing against an angry black man. We’re like _fucking nuclear weapons_.” He scowls at the windshield.

Ben presses his lips together.

And there it is, the elephant in the room.

They’re both quiet a minute, the din of the engine filling the silence.

“You know what really pisses me off?” Finn sits up. “I wouldn’t even fucking have priors if I’d gone to a different school. You think those white kids in the Garden District aren’t smoking weed? You think they’re not sneaking out after hours to meet their friends? _Of course_ they fucking are. They just don’t get caught as much because the police are too busy patrolling _our neighborhoods_.” He beats his chest. “It’s _bullshit!_ ”

Ben keeps his eyes on the road.

He can’t help but think back to his own high school years. He did his share of weed smoking and hell raising, but he never got arrested. Even if he had, his mom would have pulled some strings, kept it from his record.

Finn fumes next to him. “I tell my sister all the time— She can’t fuck up. Not even once. Our kind don’t get second chances. The moment you get a record, you’re a target _for life_ , especially when you live in a neighborhood like ours. The police watch us like hawks, patrolling, setting up DUI checks, doing random searches. I don’t even fucking wear hoodies anymore. I might as well wear an “arrest me” sign.”

Ben readjusts his hands on the steering wheel. “Yeah…” He searches for something to say. “It’s fucked up. There really needs to be some police reform— better training, more diversity.”

“Yeah.” Finn snorts. “That’ll fix everything.”

Ben stills.

Was that the wrong thing to say…?

He glances at Finn.

He’s glaring at the road, arms crossed. “He was black,” he says abruptly.

“Huh?”

“The officer who arrested me,” Finn explains. “He was black.”

“Oh.” Ben clouds. He looks to Finn still facing forward.

“Which of course means race had nothing to do it, right?” He jerks up. “It’s not like black people can be racist or anything. There’s no colorism, no classism. We’re all just _one big happy family._ ”

Ben raises his eyebrows.

“Just throw out some white cops, throw in some black ones and _voila!_ Problem solved.” Finn throws himself against the seat.

Ben shifts uncomfortably. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t.” Finn passes a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t yell at you like this, not when you’re the reason my sister won’t be waking up to an empty house.”

“Don’t.” Ben turns his head sharply. “Don’t apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for. You have every right be angry, so yell all you want.”

Finn grunts. “Yelling’s what got me in this mess. Maybe I should rip a page out of your book and work on my brooding.”

Ben’s lips twitch up.

“It’s just…” Finn sighs. “It bugs me when people oversimplify, you know? Trust me— there’s a difference between being black in Broadmoor and black in Country Club. Fucking _worlds_ of difference. A whole damn galaxy.”

Ben nods, listening.

“But white people don’t get that. They think a little diversity fixes everything, meanwhile they don’t see what’s _right fucking in front of them_. I mean, don’t they notice when they pick up their kids from school? Watch for it. Stand outside a school one day or fuck, just go to a Mardi Gras parade, and you’ll see it, all those high school marching bands. It looks like we’re segregated because we _fucking are_ , most of the white kids in the good private schools and most of the black kids in the shitty public ones. _That’s_ the real problem.”

“School segregation?”

“No, _segregation_. Full stop.” Finn slices a hand through the air. “It’s not just the police. It’s _everything_. It’s poverty and shitty housing. It’s minimum wage and no health insurance. It’s crappy schools and college tuition. It’s all the things that keep black folks tired, poor, and stuck in neighborhoods where they’re damn near _guaranteed_ to get stopped by police.” He settles back, but he’s still ranting in his head, lips moving without words.

The truck falls silent.

Ben runs a hand over the steering wheel.

Listening to Finn, it occurs to him how little he’s noticed in this town. He’s been all over the city working odd jobs, and it’s never struck him how segregated it is.

Finn’s right. The schools, the neighborhoods… It’s like fucking 1950. Was it like that in New York?

Ben furrows his brow.

Ithaca was so white, it’s hard to say. In the city maybe? He didn’t live there long, and he stayed Manhattan if he could help it, but he made it out to other boroughs every now and then.

He strains, conjuring images of the Bronx, Brooklyn…

“ _Shit_ ,” he whispers. 

“What?” Finn looks over.

“Oh… uh. Nothing.” Ben focuses on the road. “I was just thinking about New York. I wish I could say things were different there, but…” He shakes his head. “I’m not sure they are.”

Finn grunts. “Yeah, according to my cousin, Newark’s as bad as Baton Rouge. It’s the same shit everywhere…” He rolls his head back. “But racism’s over, right? We’ve had a black man in the White House, so we’re all good now.” He twitches.

Ben glances at him but keeps his mouth shut. He’s not well-suited to weigh in on the subject. Hell, ten years ago, he might have claimed he was “color blind.”

Prison quickly disabused him of that notion. Given the racial politics, there was no ignoring the fact most inmates were black or brown. On the occasion he could safely fraternize outside the white cohort, he learned many of them were serving longer sentences for crimes that weren’t as bad as his.

Then again, they didn’t have a former U.S. senator fighting tooth and nail to get their sentences reduced.

This is when he started to understand what white privilege means. It’s a process that’s still unfolding, learning all the little advantages that come with having the same skin as those in power. Just listening to Finn, it unfolds a little more, how deep the problem runs— disparities in wealth, housing, health, education, jobs, justice…

Ben sinks a little.

How do you even _begin_ to solve a problem like that?

He glances at Finn.

He’s sitting with his arms crossed.

“Hey, Finn?”

“Hm?” He keeps his eyes forward.

“Can I, uh… ask you something that might seem… strange?”

This gets his attention. Finn sits up, studying Ben. “Sure.”

“If you could do something, anything, to change the way things are, everything you just talked about, where would you start?”

Finn raises his eyebrows. He’s caught off guard by the question but clearly intrigued. He folds his arms, thinking a minute. “Preschool,” he finally answers. “Really good preschool for kids in poor neighborhoods.”

Ben quirks his head.

That’s not what he expected.

“Preschool?”

“Yeah.” Finn nods. “There used to be one near my neighborhood, some government experiment or something. They only let in kids from families under a certain income, and _man_ did it make a difference. My sister’s living proof of that.”

“She went there?”

“Yep. Was in the first class. I never even went to preschool, got to kindergarten without knowing how to hold a book right, but they had her reading by the time she graduated. She went to all the same schools I did after that, but…” Finn shakes his head. “I don’t know. It was just different. She’s way more serious about school, always gunning for those A’s. She’s already looking at scholarships for college, and I will _fucking get her there_ if it’s the last thing I do.” His eyes sharpen. “I want her _out_ of our neighborhood, out of Baton Rouge if I can swing it. I just want her to have a whole new life.” He sets his jaw, focused on the road like he can see the future there.

A moment later, he slouches. “Now I’ve gotta tell her I can’t pay for her dance uniforms.” He closes his eyes. “And she’ll have to take the bus to school because I can’t drive…” He drags a hand over his face. “She’s gonna be _pissed_ when she finds out I can’t vote. She’s big into politics, especially this year.”

“Whoa _,_ what?” Ben jerks to him. “You haven’t even been to court yet. There’s no reason you can’t vote.”

“Yeah, but they took my license, and you can’t vote without one.”

Oh.

Ben’s lips twist grimly.

Of course. He should’ve known. Louisiana has voter ID laws, the modern equivalent of poll taxes and literacy tests.

There must be a way around that…

He makes a mental note to look it up later.

They drive in silence for a while, Ben turning from the main road to a much darker one. He glances at Finn.

He looks miserable, sunk low in his seat. 

Ben refocuses on the road. “If it makes you feel any better…” He hesitates. “I can’t vote either.”

“Yeah?” Finn stirs. “Why not? Still registered in New York?”

“No, uh…” Ben rubs the steering wheel. “I’m on parole for a felony.”

“ _Seriously?_ ” Finn snaps up.

“Yes.”

Finn looks him over, clearly surprised. “Guess that explains the scars. And why you’re not a lawyer anymore.”

Ben doesn’t respond.

There’s a long pause.

“So…” Finn twists his lips to one side. “How long were you in?”

“Five years.” Ben keeps his eyes forward. “Would’ve been longer if my mom didn’t go bankrupt appealing for a shorter sentence.”

“What was the charge?”

“Aggravated assault.”

“Whoa…” Finn shifts a little. “Who’d you assault?”

“A partner at my firm.” Ben grips the steering wheel. “He threatened my mother, so I beat the shit out of him.”

“Damn.” Finn almost seems impressed. “And I thought you lawyers kept to white collar crime.”

Ben grunts. “Yeah, that was the problem…”

Finn eyes him, waiting for an explanation.

Ben works his jaw.

Everything in him thrashes against uttering another word. It’s not just paranoia that Snoke may be watching. It’s that saying it out loud makes it more real, as if it’s not real enough already. He already thinks about it all the time— wakes up thinking about it, goes to sleep thinking about it, dreams about it all damn night. Not talking about it is a form of control, the only one he has left.

Ben taps the steering wheel, watching Finn from the corner of his eye.

He’s staring, curious but patient. 

Ben sighs.

 _Fuck it_. The kid’s had a hard night. Maybe it’ll help him to hear someone else’s sad story, get his mind off things. 

He glances at his phone as he takes a turn, noting the ETA.

Three minutes.

“I met him in law school,” Ben says to the road. “The partner, I mean. Snoke. He gave me an internship, took me under his wing, hired me right after graduation. It was a big deal, being chosen by the founder of a firm like his.”

Finn watches, waiting.

“But…” Ben twists a palm on the steering wheel. “I didn’t work for him long before I started noticing things, inconsistencies— missing records, mysterious clients, money coming in then disappearing. I kept my mouth shut, which made Snoke trust me even more. Soon, he started asking me for favors and…” A pause. “I did them. All of them, everything he asked— questionable, illegal and everything in between. I even laundered money through my mom’s nonprofit.”

Finn widens his eyes.

“I told myself it didn’t matter as long as I was smart about it. I was so focused on my career, I’d do anything— lie, cheat, steal— whatever it took to impress Snoke. He said he was grooming me to be his successor, and I wanted it _so badly_. I’d even kill for it.”

Finn shifts in his seat. “Did you?”

“Almost,” Ben admits quietly. “There was a lawyer at the firm who stumbled into something he should’ve have. Snoke asked me to take him out his yacht, get him drunk, and…” He swallows. “Make it look like an accident. He could’ve hired someone to do it, but it wasn’t about that. He was _testing_ me, testing my loyalty.”

“So…” Finn eyes him. “What’d you do?”

“I put the guy on a plane and told him to disappear. Snoke was _furious_ when he found out, threatened to fire me. I threatened him right back, said I’d expose his whole _sham_ of a firm…” Ben sinks. “That’s when things got ugly. He dredged up all this dirt he’d found on my mom— my dad’s infidelity, some things she’d done when she was a senator. He said he could make the laundering I did look like it was all her, shut down her nonprofit and ruin her reputation.” He sets his jaw. “That’s when I beat the shit out of him.”

“ _Good_.” Finn sits up. “Good for you. Sounds like he was a _shithead_. I hope you put him in the hospital.”

“I did.” Ben’s lips twist wryly. “He had to have facial reconstructive surgery.”

“ _Fuck yeah_.” Finn pumps a fist. “You sure showed him.”

“Yes, and all it cost was my career, my reputation, and my entire family.”

“Whoa…” Finn darkens. “Your family? What do you mean?”

Ben swallows, a tightness in his throat. “After I got arrested for the assault, I made a deal with Snoke— I’d keep my mouth shut about the firm if he stayed away from my mom. I kept my end of the bargain, but…” He sighs. “Mom just couldn’t let it go. She went after him, and Snoke _crushed_ her, drug her down so low she lost her non-profit, her reputation, _everything_. It was so much stress, my dad had a heart attack then a couple years later, she got cancer. By the time it was all over, she was hardly herself anymore.” He sags. “I killed her,” he says quietly. “I killed my whole family.”

“Hey…” Finn sits a little straighter. “No, you didn’t. It’s not your fault. Your mom’s the one who went after that Snoke guy.”

“But she went after him because of _me_ ,” Ben grits. “ _I’m_ the one who drug her into it. _I’m_ the one who brought Snoke into our lives in the first place. Now dad’s dead, mom’s dead, and Snoke’s alive and well, probably fucking up someone else’s life as we speak.”

Finn parts his lips. He looks away when Ben slows, pulling up to a small house with dark windows. He parks on the shoulder and sits back, leaving the engine on.

Finn looks to the house, then down at his hands. “Did you…” He presses his lips together. “Ever go after him? Snoke, I mean. Sounds like you had a lot dirt on him, and if your mom started the fight, you had nothing left to lose.”

“I should have.” Ben keeps his eyes forward. “But…” He hesitates. “I couldn’t go after him without implicating myself. I was already looking at fifteen years for the assault. Add all the other shit on top of it?” He runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t tell mom. Not all of it. Not at first. I just kept hoping she’d let it go, and by the time I found out what she was doing, it was too late. Snoke had covered his tracks, like he always does.” He closes his eyes. “It was a losing battle from the start…”

Finn looks down. “Yeah.” He stares at his hands. “I know all about those.”

They sit quietly a moment. 

“Well…” Finn glances at him. “Thanks again for bailing me out. And for, uh… telling me what happened with you. It sounds rough, rougher than you deserved.”

Ben looks up, surprised.

Finn gives a half smile. “Just gotta keep going, keep fighting the good fight, ya know?”

Ben nods, but it’s a hollow gesture.

He stopped fighting a long time ago.

“Alright.” Finn takes a breath. “I better get in there. Gotta be up in time to get my sister to the bus.” He looks to the house, then back at Ben. “Hey, uh…” He shifts a little. “I just want you to know I’m gonna pay you back, every penny. It may take a while, but—”

“Don’t.” Ben shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. It’s on me.”

Finn stills. “I… I’m not conformable with that. I don’t take charity, and besides, you just got out of prison. I _know_ you need that money.”

Ben looks forward, tapping the steering wheel. “How about this?” He turns back to Finn. “We call it a loan without interest until you get your sister to college. Then, we’ll talk repayment. Is that acceptable?”

Finn’s eyes flicker. He studies Ben like he’s searching for a catch. “I guess that’s alright…” He says slowly. “But Chel won’t be in college for three years. That’s a long time to wait, isn’t it?”

Ben shrugs. “Guess we’ll have to keep up with each other then, huh?”

Finn huffs.

They share a look, lips curled. They both sense it, that distinct change when a relationship of convenience deepens to a true friendship.

“Get out of here.” Ben nods to the house. “Get some sleep. A couple hours, at least.”

Finn sighs. “Yeah, alright.” He pushes the door open, scooting out of the truck.

“Let me know when they set your court date, will you?”

“Why? You want to be my lawyer?”

“You’ll have a lawyer. I just want to keep up with things, help prep you, if I can.”

“Ok.” Finn softens. “I’ll let you know.”

“Good. Just don’t call me at 2:00 a.m., alright?”

“Never again.” Finn widens his eyes. “God willing.” He starts to close the door but suddenly stops. “Hey…” He lingers. “You aren’t, uh… looking for a job by chance, are you?”

“I’m…” Ben sits up. “On the lookout.” He tries not to sound too eager.

“Well, there’s no guarantee, but I’m pretty sure one of the bouncers at the bar I work at is about to get fired. It doesn’t pay much, but it’s something. Want me to let you know if there’s opening?”

“Yes.” Ben doesn’t skip a beat. “I’d be very grateful. Though…” He hesitates. “Will my record be problem?”

Finn snorts. “Not for this job. Might even work in your favor. Just show up to the interview with your scars and your brooding, and my boss will love you. He likes the bouncers to look scary as shit.” 

Ben grunts.

“Alright, man.” Finn quirks a smile. “See you around.”

“See you.”

Finn shuts the door and walks to the house, fishing his keys from the plastic bag.

Ben watches until he’s safely inside, then puts the truck in drive and moves onto the road. He makes his way through the dark neighborhood, holding in a sigh.

It won’t be so bad, living with Luke. It was stupid to try to move out in the first place. Now, he can focus on saving money. Though, he’ll have to go to mass on Sundays…

He blows out an exhale.

Ben drives slowly through the neighborhood, noticing all the houses. They’re small and crammed together, a lot of them with junk in the yard.

His thoughts drift to Finn. He thinks about what happened to him tonight, the tid bits he learned about his life. He constructs a picture of it— no parents at home, a sister to take care of, a job that has him working late at night, a neighborhood where he has to stay on guard.

He moves onto the main road, picturing Finn and his half smile.

“Just gotta keep keep fighting the good fight, ya know?”

His heart sinks.

What a _piece of shit_ he’s been. He’s spent so much time being angry— at Snoke, at his mom, at himself— without realizing how good he really has it. He’s still got family around to help him, no kids or siblings depending on him, and a lifetime of privilege giving him boosts at every turn. He’s only just learned what Finn’s known his whole life— that the system is rigged in favor of the bad guys, that they usually win while the good guys are stuck fighting a losing battle.

And yet Finn keeps fighting. He’s like mom was, like Rey is— fighting tooth and nail until there’s no fight left.

But Ben… One hard punch and he was out of the ring. He gave up instantly, didn’t even try to take Snoke down, kept his mouth shut to save his own skin.

Of course, he wasn’t bred for hard times. He was born with a silver spoon up his ass, into wealth and privilege, a loving family. He grew up winning without trying, without even realizing it.

And what did he do with all that privilege, all that opportunity…?

He wishes he could say he simply wasted it.

But no… He made the world worse than it was before. He helped the corrupt amass more power, then watched as they stomped all over people like Finn, people without the means to fight back. He engineered the losing battle, working to grow Snoke’s wealth and influence… 

Ben swallows past the catch in his throat.

It occurs to him, not for the first time, that the world would be a better place if he’d never been born. Snoke would be a little less powerful, his mom and dad still alive...

This is the thought that carries him home. It’s the last thing on his mind when he staggers into the house, collapsing on the bed. It becomes a nightmare, a twisted version of _It’s a Wonderful Life_ , the world as it could have been without him.

He sleeps restlessly, caught between two nightmares, the one in his dreams and the one he lives every day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some not-so-fun facts… 
> 
> \- Black and Latino drivers in the U.S. are [four times more likely](https://www.nyu.edu/about/news-publications/news/2020/may/black-drivers-more-likely-to-be-stopped-by-police.html) to get pulled over by police and [two times more likely](https://www.vera.org/downloads/publications/for-the-record-unjust-burden-racial-disparities.pdf) to be searched (even though white drivers are more likely to carry contraband)  
> \- When pulled over, unarmed black Americans are [ two times more likely](https://www.prisonpolicy.org/blog/2018/10/12/policing/) to be threatened with use of force and [ three times more likely](https://www.brookings.edu/blog/how-we-rise/2020/05/30/bad-apples-come-from-rotten-trees-in-policing/) to be killed than unarmed white Americans.  
> \- Black Americans are [ seven times more likely](https://link.springer.com/article/10.1007/s10560-019-00618-7) to get arrested than white Americans, and often face harsher punishments. On average, black prisoners serve sentences [10% longer](https://repository.law.umich.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=2413&context=articles) than white prisoners convicted for comparable crimes.  
> \- While racial diversity in police departments helps [ improve trust between police and communities, ](https://www.governing.com/topics/public-justice-safety/gov-police-department-diversity.html) its impact on excessive use of force is mixed. [ Some studies ](https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/abs/10.1177/0093854807313995) show white officers are more likely to use their guns on the job, but [others find](https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/abs/10.1111/1541-0072.t01-1-00009) diversity has no impact on the number of officer-related shootings. [Several](https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/abs/10.1111/puar.12956) [studies](https://www.pnas.org/content/116/32/15877) have found white, Hispanic, and black officers are equally likely to use excessive force against citizens of color (though there’s been some [ criticism of these studies](https://www.sciencemag.org/news/2019/08/study-claims-white-police-no-more-likely-shoot-minorities-draws-fire)).  
> \- Many believe [residential segregation](https://www.bu.edu/sph/2020/06/01/fatal-police-violence-is-structural-not-just-bad-apples/) is the main reason why citizens of color are more likely to be stopped, arrested, and shot by police. Predominately Black and Hispanic neighborhoods are more heavily policed, so officers of all races are more likely to encounter citizens of color on the job. 
> 
> Chapter Citations:
> 
> \- I egregiously oversimplified the process of bailing someone out of jail. The real thing is [ way more complicated and time consuming.](https://www.nytimes.com/2019/01/11/nyregion/how-does-bail-work-and-why-do-people-want-to-get-rid-of-it.html)  
> \- [This is the page](https://www.uscis.gov/working-in-the-united-states/permanent-workers/employment-based-immigration-fourth-preference-eb-4/special-immigrant-juveniles) Ben was looking at for Special Immigrant Juveniles.  
> \- Technically, you can vote in Louisiana without an ID if you sign an affidavit, but a lot of people don't know that so [very few take advantage of it.](https://www.nola.com/news/politics/elections/article_e0480e93-8bc5-51c3-bd53-0561749ade4e.html)  
> \- Several long-term studies, notably [the Abecedarian Project](https://abc.fpg.unc.edu/groundbreaking-follow-studies)and [the Perry Preschool Project](https://evidencebasedprograms.org/document/perry-preschool-project-evidence-summary/), found that quality preschool makes a significant difference for children from low income families. Compared with others who didn’t attend preschool, the preschool groups scored higher on standardized tests and were less likely to get pregnant, do drugs, or get arrested for committing a crime. They were more likely to earn a bachelor’s degree, hold higher paying jobs, own a house, and have better health. It’s estimated that for every dollar invested in these preschool programs, taxpayers saved $2.50 as a result of higher incomes, less need for government services, and reduced health care costs. 
> 
> The next update will be October 31st. Thank you for reading! And if you haven't already, vote early if you can! 
> 
> Question, if you're interested: How racially segregated is your city when it comes to neighborhoods and schooling?


	5. Voting

When he was young, Ben used to get what his mom called “dream hangovers.”

It was the strangest thing. He’d wake up after a really intense dream and just feel… _wrong_. It was like he wasn’t in the right house, the right body, the right life. He’d stumble into the kitchen cranky and irritable, the slightest thing setting him off. His mom would ask what was wrong, and he wouldn’t know how to answer.

It wasn’t just that he had a bad night of sleep. It’s that whatever he’d been dreaming was still in his head, not the details but the emotions. He’d be on edge with an inexplicable sense of urgency or consumed with regret for something couldn’t remember.

“Let go of your dream self, honey,” his mom would tell him. “This is the real you.” She’d stroke his cheek, lips curled in her signature smile, kind with a little mischief in it.

That smile was the first thing on Ben’s mind when he woke up this morning. It lingered when he rolled out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. It was still there when he went outside to water Luke’s plants and pull the garbage cans in from the drive. It was there when he took a seat on the back steps, watching butterflies drink from flowers in vines curled over the fence.

The specifics of his dream last night fade, but he remembers it was about his parents, what their lives could have been without him. He sits on the back steps, thinking about the dream and feeling… empty.

That’s the emotion that lingers most, this sense of being a black hole, a walking emptiness that swallows everything around him. It makes him want to crawl back to bed, shut the blinds, and lie in the darkness.

But he can’t do that. He’s wasted enough time sitting around feeling sorry for himself. 

So, he pushes from the steps and makes a plan for the day.

He’ll start with organizing the tools in the laundry room. He’s been meaning to do that… Then he’ll crack open that shed by the garage, clean it out so he can move some of the junk from the house in there. It’s been his goal to make at least one improvement to Luke’s place every day, his way of paying rent. Then he’ll head to the library, use one of the computers to fill out job applications. Afterwards, he’ll come back, load up the mower, and see if he can get some jobs in neighborhoods by the Garden District. 

He grabs an apple from the kitchen, wolfing it down with a cup of water, then starts to work in the laundry room. The tools he’s been using are laid neatly on a folding table, but everything else is stuffed in three different containers, a mess of fishing gear and rusted hardware. He starts cleaning them out, organizing in piles.

He works quickly and efficiently, but he can’t shake the feeling that he shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t be here at all…

He thinks about Finn last night, what he told him about Snoke, his mom, everything that happened, and the emptiness roots deeper. He becomes a man without a heart, without organs, without blood. He cleans and sorts, moving in and out of the laundry room, but he can barely feel himself, separated from his body even as it works.

By the time he gets to the shed, he’s hardly aware of what he’s doing. He cracks it open with a crowbar, then hurls indiscriminate junk into the backyard. If anyone were watching, they’d think he was in a rage, but he’s not.

He’s the utter absence of feeling, and if he’s throwing things around, it’s because he has no sense of their weight or his own strength. He reaches for random objects, not really seeing them, and flings them from the shed without knowing where they land. He stops when he hears something shatter behind him.

He whips around to find one of Luke’s planters in pieces on the other side of the yard. He hurries to it, hovering over broken shards. He crouches to survey the damage, trying to conjure a sense of guilt or shame. _Anything_. 

“Let go of your dream self, honey,” his mom whispers in the back of his mind. “This is the real you.”

He stares blankly.

Slowly, very slowly, something stirs in him. He starts to feel his heart, his blood, a tingle at the tips of his fingers.

Yes… This is the real him. He exists. He’s here. The world where his mom and dad live happily without him… That’s the shadow.

He lets out a shaky breath.

A heavy ache burrows in his chest, and he instantly misses the emptiness. His throat swells, the pain of loss biting deep.

 _God_ , he misses his mom. He misses his dad too, but losing mom was like losing the ground he stands on. Now he’s just falling, falling, falling, forever falling. 

He swallows hard.

He can’t do this. He can’t sit here like this, consumed in grief and self-loathing. He should rip a page out of Finn’s book, keep moving, keeping looking to the next thing even as he’s being pulled back. Life is suffering. That’s just the way it is, and most people learned that long before he did.

Ben forces his focus on the planter. The pieces aren’t too small, several in big chunks. With the right glue, he could put it back together.

He reaches for the biggest shard but snaps back the moment he touches it.

“ _Shit_.” 

He looks down to find blood running over his palm. He moves back to the house, grabbing a clean rag from the laundry room and heading to the kitchen. He cleans the wound with water and a little soap, appreciating the sting, a welcome distraction. He’s halfway through wrapping the cut when he hears a knock at the front door.

Ben stills. For a moment, everything’s quiet.

Then there’s another knock. “Kylo?” A familiar voice calls.

_Fuck._

He closes his eyes. He finishes wrapping the cut, then steps carefully to the living room, a slim figure hovering at the door.

“Kylo?” Rey calls with another knock. “It’s Rey, from yesterday. Are you alright? I thought I heard a crash in the backyard.”

He narrows his eyes.

How long has she been out there…?

He studies her shadow behind the blinds.

He _does not_ want to deal with this right now. The last thing he needs is to be around people, her especially. Maybe if he doesn’t answer, she’ll go away…?

He works his jaw.

Knowing her, she’d just march her little self to the backyard to check on him. Might as well get this over with…

He sighs, shuffling to the door.

“Oh!” Rey brightens when he opens it. “There you are! I was starting to worry. I heard a crash behind the house and I thought—” 

“It’s fine,” he says curtly. “Everything’s fine.”

“Oh, good.” She relaxes, smiling. She looks especially sunny today in a black dress with yellow flowers. She has that glow, so happy to see him, and already he feels a chink in his resolve.

“Well, I won’t take too much of your time,” she starts eagerly. “I just wanted to drop by and let you know I did some research last night and found out about this group in D.C. that hosts webinars on political issues. They’re doing one next Tuesday and _guess_ who the guest speaker is…” She pauses, lips pressed in excitement. “ _Lawrence Lessig!_ ” She gushes before he can answer. “That professor you told me about. He’ll be talking about corruption in Washington, and he’s not the only one either. There’ll be someone who works for Open Secrets, this website that tracks money in politics, and another from the ACLU. It’s a whole panel!” She grins, bouncing a little.

Ben stares, his heart in his throat.

 _God_ , why does she have to be like this, so cheery and passionate and pretty? Can’t she make this easier?

“That’s…” He swallows. “Great. Sounds like a great learning opportunity.”

“I know, right?” She wiggles her hips. “And I was thinking, since you know so much about this stuff, maybe we could participate together…?” She offers tentatively. “I bet you’d have _really_ good questions for the panelists, and it’s opportunity to talk with Lessig one-on-one.” She searches him, trying to gage a reaction.

He keeps his face neutral, but inside he’s crumbling like a house of cards. This played out so differently in his head, her coming to the door and him meeting her with pure stone. Now, it’s all he can do to affect apathy.

“I, uh…” He struggles for a response.

“It’s free, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Rey assures hastily. “And it won’t last too long, just an hour and a half, from 5:00 to 6:30 our time.”

Ben pricks up.

And _there’s_ his opening.

“Sorry. I can’t do 5:00, not on Tuesday. I’ve got a job interview at a bar downtown.”

Not true, but it could be. The best lies always have a grain of truth…

“Oh.” Rey tries to hide her disappointment, but does a poor job of it. “Well, that’s too bad. I was really hoping to hear your thoughts.” She shifts a little. “Maybe we can get together next Wednesday, and I can tell you all about it?”

He holds in a sigh.

 _Jesus Christ_. She’s going to make him spell this out, isn’t she?

“Can’t.” He crosses his arms. “I’ll be busy then too. I’m busy all next week.” 

Her eyes flicker. The realization starts to settle…

“Right.” She looks down. “Of course.” Her shoulders sag, a motion that seems to carry extra weight, more than casual disappointment.

There’s a twist in his heart.

It occurs to Ben how little he knows about this girl, about her life, whatever’s caused her to fixate on him. It’s human nature to gather all the pain and frustration in one area of life and pour it into something else. Maybe this is what he is for her, an opportunity to crawl out of whatever hole she’s in.

He understands that better than most. It’s all too easy to become obsessed with a person or thing when everything’s a wreck, but he can’t be that for her. He’s got his own shit to deal with.

He hardens, resolved.

“Well…” Rey glances up briefly. “Sorry to bother you. I’ll just, uh… leave you be.” She turns to the steps.

He watches her slink away, fighting an urge to say something. She’s almost to the walkway when she swings around. “Oh! I meant to remind you— Make sure to send your registration today. I noticed your mailbox was empty.”

Ben narrows his eyes. “You looked in my mailbox?”

“No, no!” She waves a hand. “Of course not. It’s just right there, and I couldn’t help but see.”

He leans coolly against the doorframe. “The mailman already came. Took the envelope this morning.”

Rey quirks her head. “Mailwoman, you mean. The postal worker for this neighborhood is female. I live nearby, remember?”

He stiffens.

_Shit._

“Right…” He keeps still. “Well, I didn’t see her. I just heard someone come by.”

“That’s strange…” Rey studies him, chin tilted. “Courtney usually comes in the afternoon. Are you sure it was her?”

“Like I said, I didn’t see her,” he answers curtly. “But whoever it was took the mail, so unless there’s a mail thief running around…”

Rey squints at him, suspicious.

“Maybe she works different hours on the weekend,” he offers.

Something shifts in her eyes. She makes her way slowly up the steps, stopping at the top. “You threw it away again, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t react, face schooled in a mask. “If I did, it would be none of your business.”

Rey huffs. “I’m the one who gave it to you in an envelope _I_ stamped and addressed, so I’d say it’s something of my business.” She crosses her arms.

They stare each other down.

“I can’t _believe_ you.” She jerks her arms apart. “After you _promised_ to send it. What? Were you just trying to get rid of me?”

“Yes.” He shoots onto the porch. “I was trying to get rid of you then, just like I’m trying to get rid of you now, but you won’t take a hint, so I’ll spell it out for you.” He leans in, hovering over her. “ _Go away_. I’m not interested in your preaching or your webinars or anything else. I want you to leave and not come back.”

Rey flinches. Hurt flashes in her eyes, but it’s quickly replaced by anger. “ _No_.” She juts her chin up. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me why you keep throwing your registration away.”

“I already _fucking told you_ ,” he grits. “I spent half of yesterday telling you, but you don’t fucking listen.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit.” She waves him off. “No one knows as much about politics as you do and refuses to vote. That, or you’re one of those assholes who loves to bitch about politics without actually _doing_ anything.” She cocks her head. “That’s it, isn’t it?” You like to watch the fight but are too lazy to get in the ring?”

He sets his jaw.

“I mean, _really_ Kylo. How hard would it be to show up and vote? The least you could do is write Lawrence Lessig’s name in for president. That’s better than _nothing_.” Her eyes pierce his.

He stands rigid, arms crossed. He sees it in his mind, what he’ll do next— stomp in the house and slam the door.

Instead, words tumble from his mouth like vomit. “I-can’t-vote.”

Rey jerks back. “What?” She blinks.

“ _I. Can’t. Vote_ ,” he repeats through gritted teeth.

She knits her brow. “What do you mean you can’t vote? You’re an American, aren’t you? Of course you can vote.” 

Ben chokes on a laugh. “You really don’t have a clue, do you?” He searches her face. “You trot around with your clipboard and your speeches, completely oblivious to the reality.”

“What reality? What do you mean?”

“You do realize voting is a privilege in this country, not a right.”

She clouds. “In _America?_ ”

“ _Yes_ , in America. _Millions_ of people here can’t vote and millions more have to jump through ridiculous hoops to vote, hoops that affect some more than others.”

She tilts her chin up. “Like…? You mean…?” 

He raises a brow.

She balks. “You’re saying that Americans are still denying black citizens the right to vote?”

“No. I’m saying we make voting harder for certain types of people— black, brown, lower income. It’s an American tradition.”

“In the _twenty-first century?_ With what, _poll taxes?_ ”

“No, we’ve gotten subtler about it. Now, we have voter ID laws and reduced polling locations.”

“How does _that_ target racial minorities?” 

“It doesn’t, not directly, but it affects them more. They’re less likely to have driver’s licenses and more likely to work jobs with odd hours. They struggle to find polling locations, then have to wait in longer lines—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Rey lifts a hand. “This doesn’t make sense. How could _any_ politician get away with passing laws that make it hard to vote? Don’t they _want_ people to vote?”

Ben snorts. “Not all of them. How the fuck else do you think a major political party skates by on a majority white base?”

Her jaw drops.

He shakes his head. “How do you not know this? How do you march all over this town preaching the value of voting without knowing you live in a state that _actively_ makes voting as difficult as possible?”

Her lips press in a line.

“Oh, that’s right.” He smirks. “You can’t vote. You’re a walking satire of our political system, registering voters in an election you can’t participate in.”

“I’m not a citizen!” Her hands fly out. “What’s _your_ excuse?”

“I…” He stiffens. “I can’t vote because…” He looks away. “I’m on parole.”

Suddenly, Rey goes very quiet and very still.

Silence.

“Oh,” she breathes, barely audible. “You… you were in prison?”

He nods once.

“For what?”

“Aggravated assault.”

Her eyes go wide. She stares like she’s seeing him for the first time, everything taking on a different color— his scars, his size, his brusque demeanor. Realizations cycle over her face, that he’s been keeping from her, that she’s let her guard down with someone she shouldn’t have.

_Criminal. Ex con. Dangerous._

“Aren’t you glad you didn’t come in the house?” He cocks his head.

Rey parts her lips. Very subtly, she takes a step back. 

He notices. Stones pile in his chest and up through his throat.

They’re both silent.

“So…” Her voice is small. “It’s illegal for you to vote?”

“Yes. Felons can’t vote for five years, in this state anyway. In some states, they can’t vote for the rest of their lives.”

She nods, a small movement, barely perceptible. “Why didn’t you tell me?” She asks quietly.

He struggles to maintain eye contact. “I…” His mouth goes dry. “I should have.”

She squints, not satisfied with this answer. She studies him carefully, searching for a lie. “I…” She hesitates. “Have to go. I have, uh… a thing. With someone. I… I have to go.” She turns, hurrying down the steps. She practically breaks into a run when she hits the walkway, scampering to the street without looking back.

He watches. He stands on the porch long after she’s gone, staring at where she disappeared.

So, it’s done then. It played out exactly how he knew it would, with him revealed as a monster and her running away.

Relief has never felt so heavy.

Ben turns into the house, closing the door with a soft click. He lingers, a hand on the nob.

Then, he moves mindlessly to the couch, sinking onto it. He stares into Luke’s study, dark and empty.

_Why didn’t you tell me?_

Her question echoes in his mind.

Why didn’t he tell her? Why did he let this drag out like he did? He could’ve easily said he can’t vote the first day she showed, no explanation, just a door in her face. Sure, she’s the one he came back, but he’s the one who gave the impression that not voting was a choice. Why couldn’t he just own up to it, say it out loud?

  1. _Can’t. Vote._



His eyes strain.

Unbidden, a host of memories rush up on him, snippets of his life flashing by.

The first time he went a polling place, his mom holding his hand while they stood in line. He didn’t know what was going on exactly, but he knew it was very adult and very important, all the people disappearing behind blue curtains and emerging looking serious.

All the nights he stayed up late, his mom pacing in front of the television, her staff flurrying around her. It started small at first but by the time he was in high school, she was renting out entire convention centers. He _hated_ those election night parties, hated being a campaign prop, the smiling and dutiful son.

The first time he voted was with his parents, a glorified photo op. When he went to college, he got a new registration card in the mail after _his mom_ sent in the paperwork. When she asked if he got it, he told her he wasn’t voting and she hopped on a plane on the pretense of meeting him for dinner.

She took him to vote instead. She wasn’t even running that year. She just wanted him to vote.

“It’s your duty, son,” she told him. “Your vote isn’t for you. It’s for everyone else, for your community.”

How many fucking times did he hear her say that? How many times did she say it _while_ they were waiting in line to vote?

It became their thing to vote together. Well… It was _her_ thing. She’d text him, badger him about when he was planning to vote, make a big deal out of it. By the time he got to law school, it was the only time he saw her outside the holidays. One time, she insisted on dinner first then afterwards they waited for _three fucking hours_ to vote, long after the polling station officially closed. He was _furious_ , but mom was unfazed. 

“Just wanted you to see how the other half votes, that’s all.”

Voting became a ritual, a family reunion of sorts. He never _once_ thought it mattered, and half the time it amounted to a middle finger aimed at the establishment. He’d write in nobody candidates or vote for third parties, though he always voted for his mom.

The last time he voted was in some obscure local election. He can’t even remember what it was for. He just remembers standing in line, him and his mom bundled in heavy coats. They were quiet for the most part.

“I wish there were more elections this year,” he remembers her saying.

He gave her a strange look. By then, she was well out of politics, throwing all her energy into her nonprofit. “Why?”

She gave him a crooked smile. “Because I miss spending time with you.”

Ben closes his eyes. He covers them with a palm and is surprised to find wetness there. He brushes it away quickly.

The next second, he’s on his feet, less of an intention and more of an instinct.

He has to keep moving, keep doing. If his body’s busy, his mind will be too, too busy to relive memories he’d rather keep buried.

He stalks to the backyard, snatching a pair of garden gloves on the way. He struggles to wriggle into them, meant for Luke’s hands and not his. He heads to the broken planter and begins sorting the pieces, putting them together in his mind.

Images of his mom keep interrupting, though, interspersed with a smiling Rey. He sees her on the front porch, armed with her clipboard and her speeches like his mother sent her from the grave to remind him to vote.

He grits his teeth.

Why does he even _fucking care?_ What does it matter? He never liked voting. He should be happy to finally be free of it, to have an iron clad excuse not to stand in that line.

He holds up two pieces of the planter, studying the edges.

Suddenly, a thought springs to mind, a snippet from last night.

Ben stills. 

That’s right… He’d forgotten.

Carefully, he sets the pieces down, then rises, reaching for his phone. He pulls off a glove with his teeth, then swipes the screen, pulling up a browser.

There’s a dozen tabs on immigration law, and he keeps them there, opening a new one. He enters a search, quickly finding what he’s looking for, then reads over the page. Once he’s satisfied, he copies the link and navigates to his messages, finding Finn at the top. He pastes the link and keys in a message.

**You don’t need a driver’s license to vote. You can sign an affidavit. It’ll take a little longer, but you can vote.**

He hits send. He waits a moment to see if Finn responds, then tucks his phone back in his pocket. 

Finn’s probably asleep after the night he had, that or he’s at work.

Ben crouches in front of the planter. He starts matching together the pieces but finds it hard to focus.

Maybe he shouldn’t have done that… It could come off as pushy. It’s not really his business, is it, whether or not Finn votes?

He furrows his brow.

He snaps up when he hears a _ping!_ , immediately fishing his out phone. He lets out a breath when he sees the message.

 **Thanks, man! I was dreading telling my sister I couldn’t vote, lol**.

A second later, Finn texts again.

**You’re sure about this, right? I don’t want to wait in line just to get turned away…**

Ben pulls off his other glove so he can type faster.

**Positive. That link’s to a government website. Let me know when you want to go, and I’ll drive you.**

Finn’s response comes quickly.

**I appreciate it, but I’ll take the bus. No reason for you to wait for nothing. The line was nearly two hours last time.**

Ben’s thumbs dart over the key pad.

**I really don’t mind. I’d like to, actually. I want to be there in case they give you shit about the affidavit.**

Now, he’s _definitely_ being pushy…

He hovers over the phone, waiting. A text pops up within the minute.

**If you wanna come, I won’t stop you, but just know Chel’s gonna be with us. I already promised her.**

Ben rises to his feet as he keys the response.

**No problem. There’s room in the truck. She’s welcome.**

He paces the yard, Finn’s response coming quickly.

**Cool. We’ll look into early voting dates and get back to you.**

Ben thumbs a reply, a swell in his chest.

**Sounds good. Just let me know.**

He slips the phone back in his pocket.

So, he’ll be standing in that line after all…

Truth be told, he’s glad Finn’s sister will be there. At least he won’t be the only one who can’t vote. It’ll be strange being at a polling place without his mom, but she’d want him to do this.

 _Atta boy_ , she’d say. _Just because you can’t vote doesn’t mean you can’t empower others to._

That ache sets in, but it bites a little less now. Ben’s never been one to believe in an afterlife, but that doesn’t stop him from imagining his mother watching him.

He stands in the center of the yard, staring absently at the ground.

Then, slowly, he heads to the house.

He’s pretty sure there’s waterproof glue in the laundry room… That should do for the planter. It won’t look perfect, but if he’s careful, the cracks won’t be noticeable from far away. He’s confident he can make it work.

He’s getting good at putting broken things back together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some not-so-fun facts…
> 
> \- [ Over five million Americans ](https://www.sentencingproject.org/publications/locked-out-2020-estimates-of-people-denied-voting-rights-due-to-a-felony-conviction/#III.%20Disenfranchisement%20in%202020) can’t vote due to felony disenfranchisement laws, including those on probation, parole or in prison. In Iowa, Kentucky, and Virginia, felons are [ barred from voting for life.](https://www.aclu.org/issues/voting-rights/voter-restoration/felony-disenfranchisement-laws-map)  
> \- Felony disenfranchisement disproportionality affects black Americans with [1 in 16 unable to vote](https://www.sentencingproject.org/publications/locked-out-2020-estimates-of-people-denied-voting-rights-due-to-a-felony-conviction/) due to orders of imprisonment (6.2% of the black population versus 1.7% of the white population). In states like Alabama, Florida, and Tennessee, it’s [1 in 7.](https://www.axios.com/restoring-the-vote-to-americans-with-felony-records-florida-248101f1-c645-4ef1-8011-4de1a197c48c.html)  
> \- In 2013, the Supreme Court [overturned key elements](https://nlihc.org/resource/history-voter-suppression) of the 1965 Voting Rights Act, no longer requiring states with a history of voter suppression to report changes in their election laws. Since then, [25 states](https://www.brennancenter.org/issues/ensure-every-american-can-vote/vote-suppression) have created new obstacles to vote, including ID laws, reduced voting times, and regular purges of registration rolls.  
> \- One of those states is Wisconsin, which [ passed a strict voter ID law ](https://www.nytimes.com/2017/09/25/us/wisconsin-voters.html) before the 2016 election. Though difficult to quantify the impact, it’s estimated to have kept 17,000 voters from the polls with a 28% drop in black votes. The current president won the state by a slim margin of 27,000 ballots.  
> \- Another state is Georgia, which has closed [214 voting precincts](https://www.ajc.com/news/state--regional-govt--politics/voting-precincts-closed-across-georgia-since-election-oversight-lifted/bBkHxptlim0Gp9pKu7dfrN/) in the past six years. Out of 159 counties, 53 have fewer voting locations than they did in 2012, 39 with poverty rates higher than the state average and 30 with black populations of 25% or more. This has contributed to longer wait times to vote with some waiting [ more than ten hours.](https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2020/oct/13/more-than-10-hour-wait-and-long-lines-as-early-voting-starts-in-georgia)  
> \- Voter ID laws and reduced polling locations [ disproportionately affect Americans of color.](https://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2018/07/poll-prri-voter-suppression/565355/) In the 2016 election, 9% of black and Hispanic voters were told they lacked proper identification to vote compared to 3% of whites. 15% of black voters and 14% of Hispanic voters reported difficulty finding a polling location compared to 5% of whites. Citizens in predominately black neighborhoods wait [29% longer to vote ](https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/smartphone-data-show-voters-in-black-neighborhoods-wait-longer1/)than those in white neighborhoods.  
> \- Republicans [generally benefit](https://www.thenation.com/article/archive/voter-turnout-scott-walker/) from low voter turnout and are [ more likely to pass laws](https://www.nytimes.com/2018/11/03/us/politics/voting-suppression-elections.html) that restrict voting. [53% of white Americans,](https://www.pewresearch.org/politics/2020/06/02/in-changing-u-s-electorate-race-and-education-remain-stark-dividing-lines/) [28% of Hispanic Americans, 12% of Asian Americans, and 8% of black Americans](https://www.pewresearch.org/politics/2018/03/20/1-trends-in-party-affiliation-among-demographic-groups/) identify as Republican.
> 
> If you’re a U.S. citizen, please vote! Mail your ballot, vote early, or show up on November 3rd! If you're one of the millions of Americans who can't vote, empower someone else to! 
> 
> I’ll be wreck in November, so I’m not setting a deadline for the last chapter. I hope to get it up by the end of the month. THANK YOU for reading and helping me make it through this election. You’re all wonderful human beings, and you have no idea how much I appreciate hearing from you.
> 
> EDIT: This election put me more out of sorts than I anticipated. I won't be uploading the final chapter until sometime next year. Sorry, guys. :(


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